"It is more blessed to give than receive."
Most of us have surely heard variations of that passage over the years, especially around Christmastime. For me, it rings true. (Unless someone wishes to gift me a late-eighties, blue, mint IROC-Z; then receiving would be pretty great).
My favourite thing, at least since my birth certificate indicated I was supposed to be an adult, has always been watching the faces of loved ones as they open a gift you put a lot of thought into.
The magic of a child's wide eyes as Santa (or you) absolutely nailed the present they were hoping for is unmatched. And I can still remember, all these years later, the feeling of pride as my Mum fawned over a mug I gave her, with gold-painted macaroni noodles glued to the side. She kept it and after she passed away, I still have it all these years later.
My favourite gift of all-time is one that I received – but it was how and why it was given (and what it continues to give) that made it so special. I've shared this story before, but I'm happy to do so again and hopefully it can stir some special memories for you folks out there:
It was 1987. I was still basically a kid. Our first as a family after Mum succumbed to cancer a couple of months before. She was only 44; the centre of our universe.
So to have Christmas, a time she always made seem so magical, so soon after her passing, just didn’t seem right. Remarkably, I even had a good dose of the usual yuletide spirit as the holiday approached because I was still surrounded by love. But then, it hit me.
I was driving home late from my then-girlfriend’s house, travelling up the Malahat to Duncan. Windows down, freezing my holiday Brazil nuts off to make sure I stayed awake. For whatever reason, the reality of Christmas without Mum just ran over me like a steamroller. Tears just started flowing uncontrollably, so badly I had to pull over. I sat there in the cold, quietly sobbing into the steering wheel, teeth chattering, missing my Mum and questioning the fairness of it all.
Then, suddenly, everything felt warm. I looked up and saw Mum, sitting in the passenger seat. I heard “I’m here. Everything’s going to be OK.”
And then, whoosh, she was gone.
I rubbed my eyes, looked all around and wondered what the heck had just happened. My own Christmas miracle.
Whatever it was, real or imagined, I no longer felt upset and happily proceeded on my way.
Christmas morning, my Dad, sister and I did the usual gift-opening. It was definitely a little more subdued than usual, with the one most responsible for the magic not there in person. The smiles and ‘thank-yous’ were genuine but muted. When we were all done, we silently began picking up all the wrapping paper.
“Wait,” said Dad. “There’s one more.”
He handed me a present. I started opening it and instantly knew what it was. Before she died, Mum had begun crocheting a blanket for me to help her pass the time. She never finished it. Inside the wrapping paper was that blanket, completed. She had my Nana finish it, for me. Best Christmas present ever. Warmer than any electric blanket ever invented.
Well, now everyone’s crying. Group hug. It wasn’t a Christmas without Mum after all. She was there. She still is, every year.
If any of you have some special stories of Christmas/holiday gifts or magic, I'd love to hear them. Please share.
Merry Christmas and happy holidays, everyone!
PQB News/Vancouver Island Daily editor Philip Wolf welcomes your questions, comments or story ideas and can be reached via email @philip.wolf@blackpress.ca or phone at 250-905-0029
