Gifts mean a lot to
me.
I love to GIVE them. I know lots of people say that, but I really
take joy in finding a gift that fits a person, wrapping it, and giving it to
them.
And I enjoy getting gifts,
of course! But I also really, really
like HAVING gifts. Like, WRAPPED UP,
STILL WAITING FOR ME gifts. It’s weird, I
know, and it drives some people crazy.
We have a pile of unopened gifts in our house, some of which are
probably a decade old!! I have learned
that I can only allow myself to “save” unwrapped gifts from my sweetheart. Gifts from family and friends must be opened
(relatively) quickly when they arrive, so as not to hurt people’s
feelings. But gifts between David and I can
be left to “simmer”, I can wonder what might be in them, and I can pretend like
there will never be an end to the gift giving.
That our love and exchange is endless.
A few times in my lift I have
been given gifts by people who had NOTHING to give. No money.
No access to fine wrapping paper or ribbons. Yet still, they SHARED. Still, they gifted.
One was a gift from a
homeless guy that we met when he and his friend happened on a party we were
throwing in our front yard. We ended up
becoming friends with him. He and a girlfriend
joined in a “front gate project” I hosted, taking photos of things that caught
their eye with a camera I provided. He
brought his mom over when she moved to town (she was also homeless) and asked
if we could help her. His girlfriend invited
me to her baby shower. One year at
Christmas he came by and gave me a gift.
It was something he had kept and carried with him for years, even though
he had no place to call “home”. It meant
the world to me that he would share a piece of him with me. He also came by a year or so later and gave
us a copy of the comic book/anime story he had completed. We had encouraged him to finish it, and he
was proud to show us he had.
And the other day I was
gifted by a complete stranger. David and
I had shown up at a sign painting event.
It had gone on all day, but I was lazy and by the time we arrived most
of the other participants were done with their projects. But the goal was to paint signs for the Women’s
March, so NEVERTHELESS WE PERSISTED. As I
went into the studio to collect paint, brushes, and poster board for us to work
with, I felt very conspicuous and out of place.
The other people there were much, much younger and I want to say “hipper”,
but I guess that only makes me sound even older, doesn’t it?? Anyway, let’s just say that David and I were
the only 2 with no tattoos and piercings.
But it was a beautiful,
oddly warm January day, so we set up our poster boards outside on the sidewalk
and painted. It was okay, but I felt rushed,
uncomfortable and awkward. David (as he
can do in any setting) just focused on himself and his work and was having a
good time.
I think I had finished my
poster by the time the man walked up. He
was an older African American gentleman.
He may have lived in the neighborhood, maybe was homeless, I do not
know. But he was carrying something in
his hands. He saw the collection of
people outside in the sunshine, and he chose ME. He came up and said, “Here, I found
this! You can have it. I think it might be an antique!!”. He smiled big as he handed me his newly found
treasure. It was a framed painting of
Jesus, soaking wet. The frame was
rusted, the glass broken, and Jesus was covered in dirt and soot. But it was a TREASURE. He found it.
And now he was gifting it to me.
I took the gift and
examined it. “Yes! It might be an antique!” I agreed with him
(even though I did not really think it was, and even if it was, it had been
ruined by dirt and rain). “It is
lovely! And it might be valuable. Are you sure you do not want to keep it,
sir??”. “No, no. You can have it,” he smiled at me, again
reminding me that maybe it was an antique.
We talked about how beautiful
the day was. And then as quickly as he
had appeared, he was gone.
We finished our posters
and cleaned up. We walked to our car
before I remembered that I had set my gift aside while we worked and forgot
it. I rushed back, worried that someone
would have thrown “Antique Jesus” away.
But there he saw, still leaned up against the brick wall where I had
left him.
I brought him home and
tried to clean him up. I am going to
hang him. Not because he might be an
antique. Not because he is a religious
symbol.
But because he was a
GIFT. A gift from someone I do not
know. A gift from someone who shared
what they had. With me.
And I am grateful.
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