Gifts and Spaghetti

Orville’s note: Men are like waffles, women spaghetti. Welcome to Olive Garden.

No matter how much you deny it, the highlight of Christmas for every little American boy and girl was the beautiful stack of presents under the tree. I’m often skeptical when girlfriends tell me that they don’t like gifts—normally this insert falls into talks about the 5 love languages, and it seems everyone thinks they would sound selfish to admit that gifts have any meaning to them. I’m sorry, but I just don’t buy it.

The idea behind a gift is that someone saw something that made them think of you, so on impulse they bought it/made it for you in the hope that maybe, even just for a moment, you’d feel a glimmer of excitement, self-worth, value, love, etc. etc. A good gift takes thought, time, and generally a cost to the giver... anyone who works for their money understands this. But to the receiver, the gift is completely free.

So why knock the gift love language ladies? You’re not foolin’ anyone.

I’d say my top two love languages, hands down, are quality time and gifts. When it comes down to it, time is really the only thing we have, so when someone gifts you their time, well… it’s beautiful, isn’t it? They never get that time back, and they chose to spend it with you.

I had a bit of a rattling weekend. Besides the fact I got very little rest / quiet time, sat in the heat all day Saturday, and had to drive eight hours without AC in the 95* oven known as my truck, I also had an encounter that shook my content view of reality.

My 13-year-old sister had a softball regional tournament on the eastern border of Missouri. My mom caravanned with her team out there and my dad drove down from Wisconsin to watch her play. My folks divorced when my sister was 1 and I was 8 going on 9. Dad is remarried with two kids who are 6 and 3—and who probably contribute to my own lack of desire to ever have children. Dad thought it would be easier though to drive down alone. I was glad to see him, since I hadn’t since Christmas break—that’s half a year since I’d seen my papa.

Mom and dad were on their best behavior towards each other for the sake of Stacie’s tournament. Actually, they got along splendidly. It was weird. The rattle-moment struck me when the four of us went out to eat at a bbq place for lunch together and dad paid for mom’s coffee. (She and Stacie had already eaten earlier.) The four of us were sitting there visiting and having a good time, talking about the tournament, my summer job, etc. etc. The casual passerby probably thought we were one happy family of four. That’s when my brain exploded.

This was how it was supposed to be.

It blew my mind.

I guess as a kid I never gave too much thought to the single parent home thing. Sure, when it first happened I missed my dad, but I quickly got used to the absence and the 16-hour car rides up to see him (thank God for gameboys…) for the summer and holidays and whatnot. And I loved birthday and Christmas gifts from my family because, although I didn’t get to see them much, those were things I could take with me, and whenever I saw those things, I’d think of the family members that gave them to me. I love sifting through memories when just sitting alone in my room as I see each gift and remember its significance.

During the car ride back to Springfield my mom drove with me since the Kansas bound caravan went through Springfield on their way home.

“Do you realize what this weekend was?” she asked me.

Me: “Ummm… Stacie’s softball tournament…?”

Mom: “If your father and I had stayed together, this weekend would have been our 25th anniversary weekend.”

And my mind imploded again.

Our conversation drifted onto the topic of how their split influenced the difference between my sister’s personality and mine. For those of you who don’t know, I’m kinda the loner quiet type who likes to write, paint, and dabble with ideas. My sister is an outgoing jock. It doesn’t get much more opposite.

“You used to be different,” mom said. “In Virginia you were the popular kid, I remember.” She laughed. “Remember how you used to bark?”

She talked about the softball clinic she put me in one year, and how I used to talk to anyone, and how she remembered watching the changes.

“Then there was that girl who really hurt you in Wisconsin,” she glowered. “What was her name again?”

“Sam.” *grumblegrumble*

Mom nodded. “You got really quiet after that, even when we moved to Kansas. You didn’t seem to want to be friends with the kids I thought you should be friends with. I never understood it.” I didn’t say anything. “But you’ve always love art,” mom observed. “Even in Virginia. Other interests you’d jump between, but you always came back to your art.”

I nodded. “You don’t need other people to make art,” I said. “You don’t need a team, or a partner. It’s just you and the canvas. It’s portable. You don’t need a baseball diamond, or a stage. Just you, your mind, your ideas. Same thing with writing. Plus, when you get it all out on a page, all that chaos wracking around inside that makes no sense—when you can see it, written out in text or paint—you can let it go.”

Mom paused for a bit. “I’ve always thought us very blessed,” she finally said. “After all, I was supposed to be bringing different boyfriends home every night and you and Stacie were supposed to be caught up on drugs and pregnant and who knows what else by now. But we dodged all of that.” She sighed. “I’m very grateful.”

“We had a good foundation,” I said.

“Well, I think the God factor is what got us through,” mom replied.

“… That’s what I meant…”

“Oh.”

The conversation then turned to church issues, which I won’t go into right now, but there is a bit more spaghetti to be had. People have always told me that creativity is a gift from God, and that God’s gifts serve a purpose in our lives. Numerous times I’ve been told that God has blessed me with a wonderful gift in my art. Well, a gift is something someone puts thought and time into that they think the receiver will benefit from in some way, right?

This thought popped into my head around this point in the convo with ma: what if God looked down and saw this little girl, and saw the future ahead of her. His heart ached, because this division was not his ideal, but humans will be humans and bicker and split. But the little girl? How will she cope? She was years from even glimpsing the might of her heavenly father. How could he carry her though?

He’d give her a gift. A gift that would ease her heart and calm her mind, that would bring her joy and praise that would carry her confidence through the darkness, and would help her heal. He’d give her a gift that would provide a means to other doors, and would connect her with others like herself so she’d never be alone. And he would bless her in her endeavors with this gift even if she didn’t realize its origin or purpose, because once given, the gift was hers to use as she’d need it.

Is it so hard to believe? A passion sparked in the heart of a little girl that would consistently throughout her life pull her back up when everything else is crumbling, dubbed by others as a gift from God, was, indeed, a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful GIFT from God.

We all know of THE gift from God, which is why we celebrate Christmas. But don’t bash the smaller, subtler gifts. A gift is a beautiful thing. Don’t discredit what God has given you.

Several people the last couple days have asked me if something was wrong. Nothing is wrong; I’ve just had a lot of noodles to sort through. Hence, the word-vomit above.