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The Last Gift
The
older I get the more I’m convinced that memory and smell are linked. I
love the smell of Christmas: Sugar cookies baking. The turkey sizzling. I
love the taste of Christmas too: Mixed nuts. Mandarin oranges. Fresh dirt
from one of my brother Tim’s incoming snowballs. Ah, Christmastime. When
I was a child of eight or nine and Christmas was barely a week away, I Each
December morning my sister and I would sit on a living room heat register
inches from the Christmas tree coveting toys from the Sears catalog. On
the wall behind our heads, frost framed an electrical outlet. Yesterday
I’d earned a nickel putting my tongue on it. But otherwise I was a
reasonably bright chap. My sister pointed out certain toys. “What do
they do?” she asked. If I didn’t know the answer, I made one up. One
page in particular held a dream for me. At the top right, just above a
stuffed bear, sat a yellow-handled bow with real suction-cup arrows. “If
only I could pull the wrapping off one of those,” I told my sister,
“my Christmas would be complete.” She shook her head. When I told my
brother, he said, “You kidding? After what you did to Grandpa’s
chocolates? You’ll be lucky to get a hand-me-down toothbrush.” Deep
down I knew he was right. Deep down I dreaded Christmas. But still I
shared the dream with my dad. “$10.99!” he winced, “You want to put
us in the Poor House?” I wondered what the Poor House was like. What
would we do there? Would Grandpa still come visit? Would he bring
chocolates? As
December 25 drew near, I scanned the growing pile beneath the tree.
Nothing. A shiny green package near the back was the right size, but late
one night while everyone else slept, a flashlight informed me that the
nametag was my sisters. In fact, most of them seemed to be hers. I
squeezed the ones that said “Philip.” They felt like practical gifts:
socks, deodorant, underwear. Things you don’t tell your friends about on
Boxing Day. The
worst thing about Christmas morning was the waiting. My parents made us
eat breakfast first. Then do the dishes. And sweep the floor. And vacuum.
And memorize the Gospel of Luke. Then Dad prayed for the troops in Vietnam
and Korea and Russia, and missionaries in countries I couldn’t
pronounce. At
last the time came. And this year the disappointment was overwhelming.
With only three presents left beneath the tree, I held in my lap a small
Tonka truck, three pairs of black socks, a shirt with pins in it, and a
cowboy poster that read, “When you reach the end of your rope, tie a
knot in it and hang on.” The
first remaining gift was a George Beverley Shea album for my mom. The
second was for Grandpa, a box of chocolates from my brother and me. The
last gift was green and shiny and just the right size. My sister grinned.
And picked it up. Then the most unexpected thing happened: she turned and
handed it to me. “Open it,” she said. “It’s yours. Tim put my name
on it to fool you.” Mom
wanted me to save the wrapping paper for next year, but it was already too
late. I let out a triumphant Whoop! and danced around the living
room, holding the bow and arrow high like the Stanley Cup. Grandpa stopped
sampling chocolates and smiled widely. “It’s from all of us,” he
said. “You
be careful with that, Son,” said my mother. “He’ll
be okay,” said my dad. I
remember only a handful of gifts from my childhood. A Detroit Red Wings
hockey jersey. A Hot Wheels race-car set. I remember ice-skating and
carol-singing and candle-making, and Grandpa’s story of a Baby whose
tiny brow was made for thorns; whose blood would one day cleanse the
world. But it was the last gift that made Christmas come alive for me. You
see, that bow and arrow caused me to realize that Christmas is all about
grace. A gift I don’t deserve coming along when I least expect it.
Changing everything. Forever. A
child of eight or nine doesn’t think of these things. I only knew at the
time that I couldn’t wait to try the gift out. I remember wolfing down
turkey and my Mom’s special dressing and pudding so thick you could hear
it hit bottom. And I recall tip-toeing after my brother as he headed down
the hallway that afternoon. I locked an arrow in place, took careful aim
and pulled on the string until it was tight. “Hey
Tim!” I yelled. “Merry Christmas!” And I wondered just for a moment if I should ask permission or forgiveness.
Looking for a Christmas gift they won't be able to eat? Purchase an autographed copy of one of Phil’s books.
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sinned greatly. I sneaked into Grandpa’s room, listened to him snore,
then reached out and stole an entire box of chocolates, locking myself in
the bathroom, and eating both layers. I can still taste those chocolates.
I can still feel that strap. Few spankings were worth it. This was one. It
made me wonder if sometimes you’re almost better off asking for
forgiveness than permission.
