Gifts to Equal Love
We were lining up for Sunday school classes. I was nine
years old and Aaron was almost eleven. He handed me a note, folded into a one
inch square, made out of the morning’s church program then blushed to the tips
of his ears and quickly turned away without a word. My name was printed in blue
ink, all caps, and there was an arrow pointing to where I should start to
unfold the paper. As I clutched the note in my hand I felt that there was
something inside. It wasn’t just a note. It was a gift.
I unfolded
the paper and a charm fell into my hands: a golden teardrop cage that held a
sparkling amber ball inside. I showed my friend, who giggled with me that I got
a gift (in church!) from a boy.
It was true
love. I was certain.
The damage
was done. My young girl heart was trained that gifts meant love – tangible
gifts that came in packages to unwrap, even if they weren’t fancy ones. My
paternal grandmother, a petite German woman with a heavy accent and short
white-blonde hair, was especially guilty of perpetuating this myth in my heart.
It took me most of my growing up years to understand that love alone can be
given away and received with as much pleasure as a wrapped package.
My parents
delighted us each year with thoughtful and often unexpected gifts for
Christmas. Even when we were going through our poor years as a family they
somehow made it magical on that special morning. I expected the same thing when
I was a senior in high school but the bounty under the tree from my parents
that year shook up my gifts-equal-love understanding.
I was
preparing to go to college and they decided to help me by giving me flannel
sheets (green plaid on a cream background), and a giant magenta duffle bag. How
could they love me if their gifts said, “please pack your bags and go”? I
couldn’t hold back my tears because, in my selfish teenage heart, those gifts meant
they were trying to send me away.
My mother
assured me that they weren’t ready to see me go – just yet. When my tears dried
I had to reevaluate how I knew that I was loved. If receiving these gifts made
me feel awful and unloved how could I know they loved me? How did I know anyone
loved me if I couldn’t trust presents to let me know?
During this
year of life I was at the apex of my high school running career. It had become
my goal to break the school record in the 300-meter hurdle race. My dad had a
personal interest in my running since in his glory days he had also sprinted
around the track. Towards the end of the season he started getting home from
work earlier a few days a week so he could be there to watch my progress and
offer advice through my training.
His voice
of encouragement became a stronghold in my mind. We counted out steps between
hurdles together and went through race strategy over and over again. He had
full confidence in my ability and so I gained a nervous confidence in myself as
well.
All I had
to do was get through the preliminary race. There are only eight hurdles in the
300-meter hurdle race. That isn’t very many. The first five are staggered along
the track in each lane; the last three hurdles are lined in rows down the home
stretch.
When the
gun sounded I took off, counting steps in my head. Everything was silent except
the sounds of my breathing and counting and footsteps. I had never been in such
a running zone before. When I got to the third hurdle I heard my dad. The only
sound that penetrated my concentration was his voice as he called my name and
words of encouragement as I sprinted by.
It was a
good thing I was only listening to him because when I got to the fifth hurdle I
fell. I have no idea how it happened. One minute I was flying around the track
and the next I was sprawled in the dirt and chalk lines. There was still
silence in my head and all I knew was that I had to get up and go again, not
because of any rational thought but because my body knew that I wasn’t at the
end.
So I got up.
And I won the race.
Later I
would learn that everyone around me was screaming at me to get up, the bus bringing
the softball team home had just rumbled into the parking lot near the track and
they all witnessed, and jeered at, my spectacular crash. The baseball team, playing on the field next
to the track, wondered what had happened because the commotion was so loud. Yet
I didn’t hear any of it. The only thing I heard after the gun went off was my
dad’s voice. I was deaf to everything else.
This story
would have an awesome ending if I were able to say that two days later I ran
the race of my life and beat that school record I had been chasing. It doesn’t
end that way though. My right knee was covered with a pulpy scab trying to
heal. I was spooked. I didn’t beat the record and I didn’t feel like the
champion I wanted to be when I exited the track for the last time that year.
My dad told
me different though. He gave me a hug and told me that he thought my efforts were
amazing. He let me be disappointed but not downcast as he told me he knew I had
wanted to finish faster.
I
understood more about love after that race. The gift of an anchoring voice to
hear and listen to amid the confusion of life – that is also called the gift of
love. Love was the gift my dad had given me, wrapped up in his time, freely
given, hard to see.
Do I always
listen to that voice in my head telling me that I can win, that I’m made of
better stuff than I realize? Do any of us? I wish I could hear that voice all
the time because it is the voice that tells me, beyond any material gift, that
I am loved and valued. My dad’s patient gift of love to me taught me to be that
voice for others. We are all running different races and we all fall
unexpectedly. Am I giving the gift of encouragement and speaking with love so
that my fellow racers will keep on running?
When our
first child was born he had to be intubated immediately and was whisked off to
the NICU where he would stay for three weeks. One of his lungs was compressed
from a giant cyst that required surgery to be removed. I wanted to hold my dear
baby and soothe him but wires and bandages and stitches were in the way. The nurses
told me that the most reassuring thing I could do at that time was to rest my
hand on his head and tell him I was there.
I remembered how powerful the sound
of a voice could be and so I kept talking to him, my hand lightly resting on
his fuzzy scalp. I quietly narrated the nothings of the day with the hope that,
from the beginning, my voice would mean love and strength in his life. I wanted
him know how to finish this race that I had placed him in by giving birth, so I
kept talking, telling him to keep fighting so he could wake up and heal and
come home.
He’s a healthy boy now. When he
can’t sleep he asks me to read aloud to him, even if we’ve already read.
Somehow, my voice helps him feel at peace. Is that because I talked to him so
much when he was tiny and helpless? I like to hope so.
I still
love to get presents. My husband often shows his love through creative gifts
that I’m always delighted to receive. Now though, I’m more aware of love given
in packages that are hard to see: my children doing their chores without being
asked, a phone call in the middle of the day just to say hello, snow scraped
off my windshield in the morning, a note in my inbox from a friend.
I kept the trinket
that meant true love to me when I was young and I hung it on my charm bracelet.
When I see it I smile at the memory and then it reminds me that love itself is
a gift to give.
9 comments:
Oh Paige, that is beautiful! I am very curious about those other essays now; they must have been absolutely spectacular to edge out yours. Thank you for sharing it here!
Reading this was the highlight of my day. Thank you for sharing you Paige. You rock!
You should have won. Beautiful essay!
Great essay! You may not have won the prize, but you are a winner in my eyes.
What a beautiful essay - thank you!
I loved your essay! It really touched me! Thanks for sharing it!
Paige, your essay was beautiful! I still have tears in my eyes. I'm so glad you actually wrote one, and to be honest, I'm surprised you didn't win! Kent and I never wrote ours and we don't have any sort of excuse (like moving and taking care of 5 kids solo).
Anyway, I loved it. You are such a talented writer.
That was a great Paige! I'm so excited that I finally got to read some of your work.
Now I think you should send me the novel you're working on so I can enjoy that too!! ;)
I love this essay. Keep writing. Keep writing. I want that novel too.
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