I’m an introvert by nature, but my 6-year-old Benjamin is a party planner. A gift giver. A welcomer.
When we have people coming over, he waits for them on the porch. When they try to leave, he always asks if they can stay just a little bit longer – perhaps spend the night?
He made, and wrapped, my Christmas present in late October. And judging by how quickly he has gone through the most recent bag of pipe cleaners, he’s probably already started on gifts for the rest of the family.
In the past, I’ve mailed beaded necklaces to relatives in Oklahoma and shared his finger-painted bookmarks with co-workers and readers of my column. Every time I get to the end of another book of stamps, I smile. Another 20 cards, drawings and gifts. Another 20 chances for Benjamin to connect and show his love.
Every stamp is worth it because you can’t put a price on a gift given out of joy.
Even if a gift is not your favorite color, not your size or just not your kind of thing, it means something to be remembered, to be thought of. It means something to be reminded that Christmas – the miraculous birth in a barn – is a gift for each of us. And if Benjamin can do that for people at 6, then surely I can do that at 41.
Instead of worrying what people might think of my little house with unruly laundry, maybe I could offer the gift of a home cooked meal around a lively dinner table. Maybe I could watch a little less Netflix and spend a little more time sending out cards and letters of my own. Maybe I could train myself to seek out the ones who are hard to see: The ones who look fine on the surface but who are flailing underneath to keep from drowning.
Maybe I could learn to give like Benjamin does, with arms and heart wide open.
Looking for gifts that welcome?