child loss, bereavement, tcf canada, tcf, compassionate friends, grief, grieving

The Just Right Gift

Have you ever tried to wrap a present? I don't mean one of those nice, neat, square boxes with something inside it. I mean, a present . . . one of those oddly shaped, too expensive, but "just right" things that leaps off the shelf and into your arms in the middle of August!

How come the just right things are never easy to wrap? They have odd little corners or big, poky edges that peek through the paper or start little tears that eventually become big rips, and you have to start all over again. They have slippery sides and the paper wiggles around and the ends don't meet no matter how large I cut the paper. The tape won't stick to those weird-shaped places that I think tape needs to go, and no one can disguise the shapes on those just right presents.

Presents are very special in our family. They are the source of much discussion, stress and anguish. They are also a wonderful source of joy.

Years ago, our family was normal in our pursuit of the just right gift for each member of the household. We would spend the prerequisite number of days dashing from store to store, in search of the just-right gift, the one where the recipients name just seemed to be "written on it."

Some of us were more creative than others, and some of the gifts reflected not only the love with which they were given, but a sense of style, creativity or humor. Those gifts were easily wrapped and were often so beautifully gift-wrapped that no one wanted to tear into them.

So, gift giving became a long and tedious affair at our house. No paper could be torn as one unwrapped one's gift. We would "ooh" and "ahhh" as each present made its debut, and then the paper would be carefully smoothed, folded and put away for the next gift-giving occasion. (Some would call this cheap, but we preferred to think of it as recycling).

Gift-wrap wasn't the only thing that had to be handled gently, however. Ribbon was also a source of ritual in our house. Once everyone had admired them, bows were simply plucked off the packages and stored in a zip-locked bag. Most of the bows still had the original sticky-back label on them -- we simply double folded tape on the back. These bows were still in their original condition!

Boxes, too, had their custom. Long before recycling became popular, our family simply used and reused the same boxes year after year. After awhile, you couldn't believe anything you read on any box! I once got really excited about receiving a blender only to discover my mother had packed a year's supply of new underwear inside. Shoeboxes were particularly popular although no one in our family had received shoes as a gift for years! Shoeboxes can hold all sorts of oddly shaped presents, and they are pretty easy to wrap... even for the butterfingers in the family.

But then one holiday season, no one thought much about gifts. We could barely breathe, let alone go shopping. The thought of being happy was beyond us. Our family had become lost in the despair of new grief and the only thing that sparkled that year were the tears in our eyes.

Gifts? Who could think of gifts when the only thing we wanted was a return to yesterday. If you couldn't give us that, then don't bother!

From pumpkin time on, we could not bear the thought of surviving the holidays. How could we possibly endure the empty chair, the empty space, the emptiness? What gifts could possibly ease that kind of pain?

We tried. We tried to go shopping, but all we saw were things we didn't need to buy anymore. Everywhere we looked, we saw only what we didn't have. The emptiness and sadness echoed in every store, in every window, in every face.

Everyone else looked happy! And that seemed to hurt us even more. Why couldn't we find that aisle marked "Happiness?" Where were the good times? How could we wrap those and keep them alive forever?

That first holiday season wasn't so great. We did manage to stuff a turkey (I don't remember with what, however!) and I think we did decorate something. We dreaded the annual family gift exchange, though. How would we keep from sobbing and ruining the gift-wrap? Who cared about gifts and turkeys and traditions when ours were gone!

It was that first holiday in "the valley," however, when we discovered the importance and endurance of love. Lost forever, or so it seemed, love came back as we struggled to survive. Unable to think clearly or rationally, unable to survive more than a few minutes at the malls, we did our gift giving differently.

As we sat together at the family gathering, we began to remember. Memories came painfully at first, but slowly as the tears trickled down our faces, they turned from painful ones to the funny one... to the look we loved so well, to the stupid remarks once said, to the silly things once done. Words and memories came cascading out of our hearts, all shared within the family circle. We laughed. We cried. We remembered and we shared.

The next season still found us almost unable to shop carefully. We would still forget where we parked the car and nothing on the shelves seemed quite right.

HOW LONG DOES GRIEF LAST? Were we doomed to suffer forever the pains and sadness of death? WOULD WE EVER BE HAPPY AGAIN?

That holiday, the gifts and the givers began to change. No longer able to face the world and its concerns, we turned inward and fought to find some internal peace. In that search, the just right gifts began to emerge.

We found a table centerpiece that would be just right for my sister and her husband. They entertained a great deal and this would be perfect! It was a plastic-pineapple lamp, battery operated and surrounded by tiny fruits with little twinkle lights inside. When turned on, it glowed with a wondrous light... casting shadows of its leaves on the wall! It was so bad that it was just right! It seemed to "speak" to us and we couldn't resist its call. It seemed to sum up everything we felt: plastic, ridiculous, hopeless, and out of place. We bought it.

Wrapping it gave us one of our first real laughs. We couldn't find a box for it. We couldn't find any appropriate paper either, and what color ribbon does one put on a plastic-pineapple lamp? We ended up putting it in a brown-paper sack and tied it with a string. So much for tradition.

It was the hit of the holiday season, and it still graces their table now and then. No one understands the significance of that awful plastic lamp, but our family remembers it as the first source of light in our newly reclaimed life. We know the heavens are enjoying it as much as we do! It was the just right gift that year.

And now, we have a new tradition. It has become a wonderful game for all of us. We search all year round for the just right gift for each other -- the one that says, "I THOUGHT ENOUGH TO SEND THE VERY WEIRDEST, AWFULEST, STRANGEST, TACKIEST GIFT I COULD FIND." We love each other and know that no earthly gift can ever match the gift of caring and love that we share with each other.

Gifts have ranged from a twenty-five-pound, green cement alligator to a stuffed, pink pig that oinks "Jingle Bells." We have searched until we have found a shell lamp that sings, a pitcher shaped like a radish and a flock of pink flamingos. Each gift reflects our family philosophy of pure, honest joy. While we used to search for a gift that impressed, now we know that a gift of love and laughter outlasts the sadness.

You can choose joy again. We can remember all the awfulness, the pain, the hurt, the emptiness of a loved one's death. Or, we can choose to celebrate the joy and the light they brought to our lives. We can count what we no longer have or cherish the wonder of the love we once knew. When we choose joy, we celebrate the love that never goes away.

So, if you cannot face gift-giving this holiday season, try the simple gift of memory. And once you are comfortable with memories, try looking for the joy in them.

JOY is everywhere and so is sadness. They do not cancel each other, but rather enhance the light. There is no light without shadow, but no shadow can happen without the light.
Wrap that up... and save the paper, the ribbon and the box for next year.

Darcie D. Sims