Just Say Thank You and Shut Up

Angels among us.

To quote an over-quoted Charles Dickens, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”  

Holidays are always filled with hustle and bustle. While I usually refuse to settle into a hurried feeling of to-do lists and hoopla, this year I felt the anxiousness simmering, barely concealed beneath my skin. There were December birthdays to celebrate, gifts to buy, a house to decorate (I skipped making cookies this year. Who needs more sugar?), school concerts and church services and a few holiday parties to attend. Oh and there were two weeks of daily drives over mountain passes to finish up medical appointments for my son.

Somehow, in the midst of it all, I still managed to have fun, enjoy my family, a visit with my son’s delightful girlfriend, and the magic and meaning of the season. It was the best of times.

One day—the only day it snowed and obscured our drive on the way to the medical appointment...the same day I gripped the steering wheel so hard my fingers went numb...the same trip that took us almost an extra 40 minutes because I knew my little Toyota Corolla could skid like a hockey puck across the icy mountain roads if I wasn’t extra careful—we planned a shopping trip. It was just days before Christmas, and I hadn’t even bought anything for stockings yet, the one, real gift we give our kids. 

After rolling a sticky-wheeled cart around Target for a couple of hours, I managed to fill it with videos, cans of nuts, candy, make-up for my daughter, flashlights and novelties for my son, socks, lip balms, and random little fillers I thought might be fun, I pushed my cart to the line and waited my turn. I knew how much I could spend, and as I stood in line I did a mental calculation of the items, plus what I would need to buy for Christmas dinner. Our budget was tight this year. Medical expenses and multiple tanks of gas had stretched it to the limit. But we’d be all right.

Finally it was my turn and I unloaded all the items, glancing through them. Did I get my son enough? Would my daughter like those earrings? I still needed to pick up a few more things for my husband’s stocking. The checkout clerk cheerfully scanned each item and gave me a total. I gulped. It just seemed like so much for such silly stuff. I slid my debit card through the little scanning machine. Rejected. What? I even checked the balance with my husband before I left. We had plenty! I sighed, feeling the heat of bodies lined up behind me waiting their turn. 

“Let me try my charge card,” I said, totally embarrassed. Declined. That can’t be! I knew that was paid up. The cashier looked at me patiently. “I don’t understand,” I muttered trying yet another charge card.

“I’m sorry,” she said, almost as uncomfortable by now as I was, “That card's expired.” Great. I hadn’t put in the new card.

Another cashier came up and took a few people from our line. I was so embarrassed. “Never mind,” I muttered. “I’m not sure what’s going on. Just…I’ll leave it. I’m sorry. But thank you.” I walked away from the bagged items, my face hot, not meeting any eyes.

It was the worst of times.

“Ma’am?” the clerk called me back.

“Yes?” I said wishing she’d just let me walk away.

“These people behind you just paid for your purchase. You can take your bags.”

I’ve read about things like this happening. I’ve even wished I had the money to pay it forward like this before, but I’ve never had it actually happen to me. I was… horrified. Embarrassed. Mortified. “No, no,” I protested to the couple, probably both close to my age, the lady, a pretty blonde in a long, full-length fur coat. I had seen them in the store earlier as I was cruising aisles. With big grins they were filling several carts with Christmas goodies.

“It’s all right,” the lady said. “We are happy to do it.”

But I couldn’t let it rest. “No, no really. We are okay. We have the money. I just need to transfer it or something. I’m not sure why the cards didn’t go through.” Maybe if they had paid for needed groceries, or we truly were hurting for money, but this was just for bags full of trinkets and doo-dads for stockings. I couldn’t let them pay. They insisted. I wish I could say I was gracious and graceful. Although I thanked them profusely, I felt horrible inside. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

All the way home, I felt sick about being in a position of accepting charity;  for allowing someone to pay for our bags full of… stuff.  

As the day wore on, the reality of what had occurred and my ungracious response continued to sicken me. Slowly I realized I had to stop and adjust my attitude. Someone had wanted to gift us, to help alleviate my stress. They didn’t know we’d had a rough year with my son’s battle with cancer. They didn’t know our budget was tight. It didn’t matter. They wanted to do this, and I almost denied them their joy by allowing--let’s name it for what it is--my pride to ruin their gifting.

By the time I wrapped each little trinket to place in a stocking, I had softened and allowed the gratefulness and awe of what had happened to penetrate my heart. Being grateful--receiving--is, in my opinion, far more difficult than giving. I learned a tough lesson in humility, graciousness and gratefulness that afternoon. I hope they are lessons that won’t go unharvested. Although I trust this experience will remind me to pay it forward when an opportunity allows, I also hope it will teach me to recognize and name my pride more readily, and just learn to say thank you. And truly mean it.

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Thanks BlogHer for the feature of this article. I'm in good company in my need to learn how to be graciously grateful. 

Deck the Halls... And Every Other Available Surface

I’m not typically a kitsch person. I like my surfaces clutter-free and have a strong aversion to dusting lots of knick-knacks. I admire the collections and tasteful decorating techniques of others, but just can’t seem to pull it off. You could say I have a minimalist approach to decorating – like the Hemingway of interior design.

However, when the holidays roll around, I haul out boxes of Christmas decorations and I become a Kitsch Queen. I think it goes back to my own childhood. I remember being so excited when my mom would decorate for the holidays. There were always favorites I forgot about from year-to-year. She’d pull out the Santa sleigh with his reindeer and set it on the table, and I gently played with it, making up pretend stories about their Christmas adventures. There were ornaments, too—the little elf (the original Elf on the Shelf) that we stuck in the tree, our crazy tree-top star with its sporadic and seemingly non-pattern blinking, the little stockings we hung on the tree that might contain a silver dollar on Christmas morning! Each unique decoration would make me feel warm and cozy inside.

We had other traditions I savored too. It seems like there was always a box of that horrible ribbon candy on the coffee table during the holidays. Arranged like pastel ribbons of jewels, I broke off a little delicate piece, sucked on it and then remembered why it remained in the box, uneaten, for the remainder of the season. Every year, my parents would pull out the old Firestone albums-- the ones they received at gas stations (back when they were full-service). We'd play them on the stereo console and listen to Bing, Sinatra or another crooner fill the air with dreams of a white Christmas and chestnuts roasting on open fires. Of course, there were the T.V. specials-- pre-DVD. Oh, the anticipation of the chosen night when Rudulph or Santa would fill our sets with stop-motion animation of pure delight.

So each year I too drag out the boxes, open them and lovingly place the collected pieces around the house. I hope my kids are building memories, admiring the old tin Santa that was Dad’s when he was a boy, or the ornate ceramic pieces a friend of mine made for me over twenty years ago. Some collections, like the snowmen, started very unintentionally. It seemed like for several years they were very popular gifts and ornaments from friends. I now have a mantel full of various shapes and forms of the white, three-tiered fellows. Over the years, I’ve collected a few decorative reminders of the manger scene. I love each one, because, for me, they are the reminders of my religion and why I celebrate the season.

Truthfully, all these kitschy decorations still fill me with warm feelings. The old-fashioned ceramic angel winds up and plays Silent Night. My great aunt painted her and gifted it to me when I was a little girl. I balk at the idea that she looks like an antique, until I remember I will be 50 in the coming year. It is an antique. My sister created a couple of my angels and snowmen—a result of her talented crafting. They are dear to me, too.

Ultimately, it’s not about the stuff, though. We pared down quite a bit, shedding almost two boxes worth of decorations a few years back. The things didn't have significance to me and it was just too much to store. It’s the decorations that remind me of a friend’s love and gifting, or the little homemade ornament my kids made in grade school that fill me with the warmth of the season. And, for me, it’s the reminder of the guiding star in the sky and the baby in the manger that makes my heart sing.

So Merry Christmas, my friends. No matter how you celebrate the season or what meaning it has for you, whether it be Christmas or Hanukkah, may all the little knick-knacks you put out, the decorations you carefully unpack with tenderness and fond memories, remind you of the warmth and love of the season.