One night during the December that I was eight, my brother and I sat down to write our Christmas lists. We knew that we wouldn’t get everything we asked for, but we still filled pages with our lists of hoped for gifts. Our parents observed this epic list making from the corner of the kitchen and then had a whispered conversation.
When Dad told us to put on our shoes and coats, my brother and I were both confused. It was after dinner on a school night. We should have been starting the routine that would lead toward bed, not getting ready to leave the house. But after quick glances at each other that confirmed our individual assessments that Dad was serious, we went to find our shoes.
While we got ready, our father took two of his coats out of the front closet. He filled the pockets of those coats with gloves and bags of M&Ms. Then Dad put my brother, the coats and me into the car and drove us over the bridge into Washington, D.C.
I had been into the city many times, but never like this. We weren’t visiting a museum or listening to a free concert. We were walking down the sidewalk on a bitterly cold December night with no idea where we were going or why. The streetlamps were lit. But the bright circles of light also created deep shadows between the tall buildings. The further we walked away from our car, the tighter I held onto my father’s hand.
In our nation’s capital, a few blocks from some of our country’s most iconic monuments and buildings, Dad took us to see the homeless men and women sleeping on the steam grates and to bring coats to those not lucky enough to have the warmth of a grate.
The first person we approached, accepted a coat with quick gratitude. The second thanked us, and said she would be grateful for the food, but that there was a man at the end of the block who needed the coat more than she did. The white jacket she was wearing reached her waist. The coat my father was offering her was thick and warm and would have stretched to her knees. But she sent us down the street to give it to someone else.
When we got home that night, my brother and I tore up our Christmas lists. We still had gifts under the tree that year. But I honestly don’t remember a single one. I remember holding my father’s hand on a cold December night, while a homeless woman asked us to give her gift to someone who needed it more than she did.
Decades later, I still love all of the things that most people love about Christmas. But my favorite part, by far, is the joy of giving gifts, especially to someone who needs them more than I do. Because on that December night, so many years ago, I discovered what the woman in the white jacket already knew.
Gratitude and generosity bring a joy that desiring and receiving can never match.
Mom and Dad for the parenting win.