Christmas Spirit

”Is that all?” I asked as I sat beside a pile of gifts, the floor strewn with torn wrapping paper. I knew it sounded selfish and ungrateful, but I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant to say, but couldn’t articulate, was, “Is there anything else for me that I may have overlooked?” Dad took it with good humor, though.

“More for me, that’s the spirit of the Christmas tree,” he recited with a chuckle, and without a syllable of reprimand, we enjoyed the rest of the holiday.

Like all kids, for me Christmas meant getting. Getting what I wanted, getting surprises, getting up early, getting goodies available only once a year—it was all about getting. Some holiday programming and most TV commercials continually reinforced that theme, and I wallowed in it. I heard time after time that it was better to give than to receive, but that message never stuck.

As I grew up, I gradually looked forward to giving things to those I loved. This was nice, but receiving gifts was still nicer. This continued until I had children of my own. Then, the whole concept fell into place, and I ate it up. I loved watching the anticipation of my children. I loved planning their Christmas with my wife. I loved wrapping and hiding the presents. Most of all, I loved watching their faces as the magic of Christmas unfolded in front of their eyes. I loved all of it, even cleaning up the torn paper and packages. My present became watching my kids open their presents.

“Is that all, Dad?” Ian asked as he stood beside his pile of loot.

Once again, my father’s memory beckoned and I followed.

“More for me, that’s the spirit of the Christmas tree,” I replied, smiling at him.

Bill Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.