The Best Gift of All
by John Boyd

The holy days are upon us. And how should we good cornbread-fed, Dixie-loving dads celebrate them to the fullest for our families? By buying lots of expensive worthless crap, that’s how! There’s nothing quite so joyous as dealing with the ravenous on-sale-seeking shoppers, stalking the linoleum aisles to find the latest made-in- China toy that causes our children to weep with anticipation and need.

But we dads aren’t so dumb; we know there is a deeper need. Wow, deeper need, sounds kind of, hmmm, like psychobabble. Well, let’s get to that in a second. Giving the right gift, heck, giving plenty of the wrong gifts, is engrained in our celebration during this season. So is the unexpected gift, the one that required no energy to attain, and yet makes the day for our little’uns.

I remember three years ago when, after tearing through hundreds of dollars of gifts, my young nieces set upon this large empty box, which had previously held a new La-Z-Boy recliner. In that empty corrugated cardboard, my nieces found two hours of pure joy on Christmas morning.

Of course, the enchantment with the box didn’t last. It never does. And they did move on to the toys and clothes. Guess what? That didn’t last either. In truth, none of the gift giving on Christmas lasts very long. However, there are some notable exceptions.

The first is the lack of a gift. I haven’t committed this high treason with my daughters. Truth be known, if not for Jennifer doing the handiwork … well, you get the picture. How many times she has saved my rump like this? But I did miss giving my wife a gift one year. (This is different than the time I forgot her birthday… “Oh, I thought you were supposed to call me on your birthday!?!?”) Yes, this time we had talked it through. Money was tight, we had just purchased a new house, and we lovingly agreed to snuggle on Christmas morning and thank God for the blessings. In fact, it was just that pleasant, but there was something missing. There was the ritual joy of giving a mysterious sign of affection, the sound of ripping newspaper (that’s how I wrap), the popping of scotch tape and the look of joy and confusion over a hand-picked gift. (I have a reputation for giving the worst gifts … “I picked that salmon seasoning kit just for you!”)

Another exception goes right to the heart of us fathers. Now women-folk, you don’t need to wag this in front of our faces because it is on our minds all the time. Trust me, we don’t breathe as often as we think of it. The truest gift, the gift we dads alone can give, the prize that will be cherished in the hearts of little boys and girls even when they are grown and passing it on to their own children, is our children’s confidence that they are fiercely treasured, fully accepted and entirely beautiful in our eyes.

As Christmas approaches, I have been thinking a lot about what to give my little girls. (Yes it applies to those little cowboys, too.) I want to give them a joyous free-forall on Christmas day. I want to see cheeks pained from smiling and hear the cacophony of laughter. I want to see my living room floor two feet deep in wrapping paper and savor the smell of strong coffee and cinnamon rolls. I want the touch of sweet thank-you kisses.

But the gift I really want to give can’t be neatly wrapped, it can’t be put under warranty, and it doesn’t come with 137 chokeable pieces individually locked with twisty-ties and instructions in Korean and batteries not included and requiring an engineering degree to assemble. No, this gift is far more complex and won’t fade as the holidays fade into the New Year.

The gift is me, to my children. I want to give myself over to them, so that not just on this day of our rejoicing, but years down the line, my children will know how much I cherished and delighted in them. I want them, no, I need them to have that confidence. Then they will know: they were the most beautiful gift I ever received, and our love to each other is the greatest gift of all.

John is gifted with three girls and a high school sweetheart. They live in Columbus.