How I learned the gift of giving

That was a tough year.  But Christmas would come no matter the sturm and drang of the Smithwick household.  It always did.  When Dad was spirited away to Otisville TB sanitorium, we still had Christmas.  That year, Christmas came decidedly early, with the NYPD benevolent association and a box of toys and some food.  It was, for me, disheartening.  At five, I was clinging on to the belief in Santa, so wanting that magic to continue, without unraveling that treasured certainty. Then, Advent meant being good, doing good for others, awaiting the birth of Christ and Christmas morning, the pinnacle of the year, arriving with gifts.

A box of toys, a half a ham and some canned goods poked at that belief.  I remember my mother telling me that my Dad had friends in the police department who were giving us this gift.  Santa would come as he always would.  I believed – believed so hard, even though my father was so far away.

Other tough years came and went, and my concept of Christmas evolved, as it does for everyone.  It still retained the central beliefs in its goodness and in being good, along with the scents of fresh Christmas trees and the arrival of gifts.

I was in college when a very tough year arrived. My father had been diagnosed with emphysema, not a good diagnosis when you only have one lung and a heart condition.  He could no longer work.  Our income was limited to my mother’s salary as a telephone operator for New York Telephone.  There was no big fresh Christmas tree.  Its replacement was a tabletop version that Mom and found in the thrift shop in Katonah, N.Y.  And there was a faux gold scatter pin and my yearly Christmas package of underpinnings and a wallet.  The was from my Dad. I can see that wallet now, even feel its texture in my hand.  It was brown plastic molded to look like carved leather.  It had a small medallion with the letter A attached to the clasp.

There were at least two sides to my father.  There was one where he encouraged singing and playing, often making up games for us.  And then there was the other side, one more reserved, not prone express emotions, not one to kiss you goodnight or tuck you in … but you knew.  He was Dad, always there, a rock.

On that Christmas morning, I saw my father cry.

“I’m sorry, Ann.  It was all I could afford…”

I interrupted him, my own voice full of swallowed tears, “I love it.  I needed a new one, and this is perfect.”

Oh, how I ached for him, having suffered through so much illness for so long, seeming to be getting stronger only to be felled once again, this time attacking his pride.  You see, no matter how sick my father was, he always found something to do.  When in the TB sanitorium when I was younger, he made small drawstring purses and ceramics, learned a type of weaving, and included us.

“Get me some old leather pocketbooks at the Good Will so that I can make more purses,” he’d say, or he would ask if one of our friends like a mug with their name on it.  He sent home frames on which we could learn the weaving techniques that he had.  When he was in remission and came home to find the company for which he had worked for many years went out of business, he then found another job working as a bookkeeper at a local prison.  He was still a breadwinner.  He still could fix things around the house.  While things were more difficult, life was good.

“God doesn’t give you more than you can handle,” he would say.

Now, he was left without resources. Bereft, just breathing was so hard for him. He was depressed, and often took it out with harsh words towards our mother.  My mother, bless her soul, did all she could to help, but helping only seemed to make it worse.

He had what we would call COPD today.  Today, there are drugs and oxygen to help.  Then, there were no remedies, and compared to the resiliency he had always shown, he felt defeated and useless.

On that Christmas, the holiday changed.  I painfully came to understand that the gift-giving was more than the exchange. It sometimes came wrapped in the hopes and dreams of the giver.  What had I given him that would be wrapped in how I loved him?  I had to give the father I loved without limits a way to come back from that darkness created by his illness, to find a way for him to  give from his strength, to see that he was the gift.

Giving was so much more important than receiving.  Why did it take me so long to understand?

Later that week, I convinced my Dad to accompany me to the hardware store   I told him a little lie, that I had been chosen to buy a set of screwdrivers for the house where I was living.  At first he didn’t want to go.  Even walking to the car was difficult for him. I persisted.

He helped me pick out an affordable set of screwdrivers.  And, in truth, although the need for the tools was made up, his help was real, a real giving of himself.

When I went to pay for the set, the girl behind the counter asked me where I got my wallet.

“I really like how it’s made,” she said. “It’s  practical and  elegant. ”

I explained that my Dad had given it to me for Christmas, nodding his way.

“I guess I’ll have to write to Santa Dad for next year,” she said with a smile.

My father didn’t say anything, but on the way home, I did think that he sat up a bit taller in his seat.

Did I know the girl behind the counter?

Did I call ahead and set this up?

Maybe. And maybe, sometimes, a gift has to be wrapped in a special way, when times are tough.