My Best Gift

by Donna Poole

Growing up, we Piarulli kids never thought of ourselves as poor. We were like many other large families of the 1950s and 1960s when one paycheck had to stretch too far. It never occurred to us to wonder if other kids were still hungry when supper was finished; that was just how life was. It’s only in looking back and remembering snatches of conversations that I realize how hard my parents struggled financially. And yet, we were better off than many.

Somehow Mom and Dad managed to give the five of us children a wonderful Christmas every year. Perhaps my memory is tangled with stars and silver bells, but I recall most Christmas days as white with snow. Each strand of tinsel hung perfectly straight on our tree strung with lights, and the house smelled wonderfully of pine.

Carefully wrapped gifts, not many but more than enough, were piled under the tree, and for a few days of the year, everything was close to perfect.

Until the arrival of that hideous thing.

We came home from school one day, laughing, rosy cheeks, stomping snow off our boots, and stared. What was that?

Mom stood next to it, smiling proudly, waiting for our reaction. That hideous thing was a tree about three feet tall with skimpy, silver-colored branches. At its foot was a color wheel.

“Wait until you see this!” Mom plugged in the color wheel, and it rotated, turning the branches red, blue, green, and yellow. All ugly. All artificial. All hideous.

I wish we’d been more considerate of Mom’s feelings; she obviously thought she’d found a lovely treasure, but we hated it. And we said so. We disliked it more every year. There were no more real trees, no rooms filled with the scent of pine. The tree stood on an end table, not on the floor where a proper, real Christmas tree should stand.

True, as Mom pointed out, it didn’t drop needles and make a mess. We wished it would drop its needles, but it endured with the tenacity of Methuselah. It’s probably still alive in a landfill somewhere!

Christmas gifts were wonderful when I was a child. When we were very young, Mom always put two unwrapped dolls on the couch for Mary and me. The first one to the sofa got first pick. Aunt Mary, who owned a dress factory, gave each of us girls a beautiful thick sweater every year. One year Grandma gave Mary and me teddy bears we cherished.

When we went to bed at night, one of us would ask, “Does your teddy bear love my teddy bear?”

“My teddy bear loves your teddy bear if your teddy bear loves my teddy bear.”

Once it was settled that the bears and their owners loved each other, we slept, each holding close her bear. I don’t know what happened to my bear, but Mary had hers until just recently. Those bears were among our favorite gifts.

When I got a little older, I looked under the tree for a book shaped package and was never disappointed. My new Nancy Drew book was there, and I devoured it before Christmas Day ended. I loved those books.

One year Dad told us to come outside to see our gift, a lovely wooden toboggan. That was an amazing present!

My favorite gift didn’t come from Mom and Dad, Aunt Mary, Grandma, or any family member. It didn’t even come at Christmas. It came from someone who terrified me, Mrs. Green.

Mrs. Green was a fearful presence who ruled children’s church. I’m sure she must have been a nice person, but I couldn’t see it back then. Her stern persona and hawk like eyes made me shudder.

One Sunday Mrs. Green used a flannel covered board with flannel illustrations that stuck to it. We called them flannelgraph figures. She put up pictures of heaven and talked about how wonderful it would be. Next, she did something I don’t recommend for small children; she placed fiery pictures of hell.

“Boys and girls don’t think that because Jesus, God’s Son, came to earth as a baby, grew up. and died on the cross to pay for the sins of the world that you’re going to heaven. It doesn’t work that way. Don’t think that because your mom and dad bring you to church every Sunday, you’re going to heaven; it doesn’t work that way!”

She jabbed a bony finger at the flames.

What was she saying? I wasn’t going to heaven just because Jesus died for me, and I came to church every Sunday?

She had my attention. How was I going to get into heaven? Whatever it took, I’d do it!

Up went a picture of a cross, and the explanation that Jesus died for our sin. For my sin. Something stirred deeply in my young heart. What kind of love was this that someone would die for me?

Mrs. Green put flannelgraph gifts on the board. “Jesus died to give you salvation from sin and a home in heaven. But does just looking at a gift make it yours? No. You have to reach out and take it.”

So how did I take this gift? I had to admit to God I was a sinner. Well, God and I both knew that! I needed to tell Him I believed Jesus died for me and ask Him to save me.

Mrs. Green told us to bow our heads for silent prayer. “If any of you took that gift and accepted Jesus as your Savior, raise your hand. I’d like to talk to you.”

What? Talk to Mrs. Green all by myself?

I didn’t raise my hand. My heart was filled with faith and joy, but I saw no compelling reason to become a martyr for my faith on the first day I had it. Alone with Mrs. Green? That was worse than Daniel being thrown into the lion’s den!

I never did thank Mrs. Green for giving me the best gift of all! When I get to heaven, I’ll look her up and do it. Maybe. If she doesn’t still terrify me.

I read somewhere Patrick Henry said the gift he wished he could give everyone was his faith in Jesus Christ. I wish I could give that to you too, but you’ll have to accept the gift yourself. I hope you will.

Jesus grows sweeter to me every year, and He fills my heart with hope and joy that run clear and deep under the ice of life’s many storms. I’m still pondering the question my child’s heart asked so many years ago: What kind of love was this that someone would die for me?

It’s not just grace; it’s amazing grace, a grace that came to earth as a tiny baby who gave us a way Home to God

Merry Christmas, dear friends! See you at Home.

P. S. Mary, my teddy bear still loves your teddy bear, always.