Christmas Is About Giving

The Hospital Carolers, Christmas 2010
(not shown: Elliott, who took the picture)

In spite of childhood memories and fantasies, we move on to adulthood. For me, that transition demanded, among other things, a long adventure in trying to understand myself – my own likes and dislikes, attitudes, fears, beliefs, loves – everything about myself. Simply coming to understand my own response to Christmas required a particular effort.

Early on, after the side trips into university, the Army and graduate school, I had expected to be able to reach a point from which I could recreate the annual Christmas season into some semblance of my Ogbomosho memories. [Patsy and I even managed one Ogbomosho Christmas during that time, when I was doing my graduate field research in Nigeria in ’76.] But more Christmases in England, then visits to family each year, all failed to make me happy, and I resigned myself to further delay in creating The Ideal Christmas.

Please understand that Christmas with the in-laws was really quite nice of itself. “Mrs. J” had spent months cooking goodies and buying lots of gifts, and we always came away from her house carrying extra weight and far too many new things. But each Christmas Day, after a wild few minutes of opening presents, the day would quickly settle into that odd depressed boredom at which the Christmas afternoons of my childhood had previously hinted.


Year after year, I marveled that I could so anticipate the delights of Christmastime, only to end up depressed and disappointed that it had not met expectations.


What was wrong with me, I wondered? I had so much for which to be thankful, and yet – I usually came away feeling … empty. Why?


Then, one Christmas afternoon at my in-laws’ house, something different happened. Someone pointed out that my in-laws had no rail on the steps to the basement, and wouldn’t it be nice if they had one to which to hold?


I came alive! I could do that! I could make a safety rail!


So I did. And I had fun doing it. My in-laws kept telling me how much they appreciated my having done such a thing, and especially on Christmas, but I want to tell them: “Thank you for putting some meaning back into my Christmas!” The next year, I built a safety rail for the steps leading to the attic. Then a safety rail for Aunt Betty. And I loved doing such projects!



That series of projects, and the pleasure I experienced from them, set me to thinking. In the following years, as Matthew grew older, we began celebrating Christmas at our house in Rocky Mount. I had begun to recognize what I had been missing, and I knew what to do about it. Our Christmases started a subtle, but definite, change.



I had realized that a celebration, no matter how nice, and no matter how many presents I received, could never provide the personal joy and meaning for which I craved, so long as everything we did was about “me” and “us.” I realized that my joy came from giving, not from getting.


Christmas in Ogbomosho had been much more about sharing and giving, even if I had not really realized it then. For example, we never celebrated Christmas with our family by itself. We always celebrated with other people – we always had other families staying with us – And even for a selfish little boy like me, Christmas became a time of sharing. Even my Christmas afternoon depressed boredom only came on when the other people had disappeared and I was just trying to make myself “happy”!


There had been some hints along the way, too, even before I had my great revelation. While we were in England, away from family, we had little to do on Christmas Day, so we helped our local pastor provide a meal and entertainment for elderly people in our neighborhood. Patsy and I were all set to feel sorry for ourselves because we were so far from family, and we were amazed at how marvelous a Christmas we had when we spent it serving and making laughter for people we didn’t even know! For a couple of Christmases in England, we joined Geoff and Judith to invite various lonely people in for a Christmas dinner.


It was against the background of such joyful experiences of giving that we experienced the depressing disappointment of merely getting.


So – back in Rocky Mount, Christmas began to change. Never again would we eat a Christmas dinner with only family present. The visitors have been different from year to year. Sometimes older friends came who had no one else with whom to celebrate. One friend’s wife was dying of cancer, so they planned nothing special. She couldn’t even eat, but both they and we enjoyed sharing that time around our table. The next year, Bill came alone; Ruby had died. One memorable Christmas, we enjoyed the company of an ex-con who was freshly released from the hospital with a broken leg but who had no way to get home for dinner. [I drove him home later that afternoon.]. Each year is a little different in detail, but similar in that it is about giving.

When Matthew grew old enough to help, our church family began serving at the local soup kitchen on Christmas Day. After a few years, another church took over that service, and we began going to the hospital on Christmas afternoon to sing carols.

We sang carols at the hospital again yesterday. As usual, that singing to patients, families and hospital staff “made our day,” not merely because we enjoy singing with our friends, but because we know – from peoples’ responses – that what we did had mattered. We had a very good Christmas.

As I have come, with age, to understand more about myself and my response to Christmas, I have also come to realize that … I also shouldn’t be surprised!

“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son ….”

Giving at Christmas time was God’s idea, anyway, but it works for me, too.