“Is there an A”?
“No”. He draws a leg.
“Is there an R?”
“YES!”
I’m looking at my son’s Hangman phrase, and can’t figure it out. I laughingly ask him if he spelled it right. The two of us are killing time this evening, the night before Christmas Eve. While my daughter G is at her piano lesson, P is keeping me company at Tim Horton’s. He’s eaten his cookie and is drinking his hot chocolate and he can’t stop talking about Christmas. The boy is eleven and tells me: “I’m Christmased out! I can’t wait anymore! Tell me how many presents I’m getting! Ok, then tell me what you bought for G!” I remember how it was at his age, the anticipation making you jump up and down all over the place like a monkey on Red Bull, your mind thinking only of what you might find under the tree, and counting down the days with great impatience.
So at Tim Horton’s, I’ve pulled out my notepad and we make a list of the food we’ll be having for our “réveillon”, the traditional French-Canadian custom of eating a feast late on Christmas Eve (usually after midnight mass) to celebrate Christmas. Along with the expected tourtière, bûche de Noël, sugar pie, sparkly juice for the kids, and wine for Mr. C & I, we’ve added our own destined-to-be classics: meatballs, onion rings, mozza sticks, and taco dip. After talking about what we’ll do Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day, I suggest a game of Hangman to P. He loves this game, and tries to come up with words and phrases that are as gross as possible, and giggles til his cheeks hurt while I try to guess. If I guess and say it out loud, he does the silent laugh where he can’t even catch his breath. I love these moments with him.
So we’re both very focused on our Hangman game, to the point that we become oblivious to the trio sitting a few tables from us. We don’t notice who’s coming in or out of the coffee shop, or the cars driving by at the drive-thru. We’re relaxed together, having fun, our guards are down, we’re happy it’s Christmas. Then a man comes up to me on my left and hands me a wrapped present saying: “Here Mum, something for the little guy. Merry Christmas.” Caught unawares, the words ”Thank you, same to you” automatically pop out of my mouth as I accept the square package wrapped in Christmas paper. He quickly exits the coffee shop without looking back, walks to his car parked a few ways down, gets in, and drives off away from the building, rather than driving in front to the main highway. By this time, my Mama-Bear radar has gone off, but I don’t want to overreact, and I want to preserve the good feeling that P and I have been sharing, so I set the gift aside and continue chatting with P.
“Are we going to open it?” “Later” I say. And thankfully the warm & fuzzy mood is preserved, and we carry on with our game. As we leave, he asks me again if he can open it. “We’ll wait til we get home, and Mr. C and I will have a look. It might be something very innocent, but I just want to be cautious. It was a little weird, don’t you think, a complete stranger handing us a wrapped gift and walking away?” I didn’t want to alarm him, but I also thought it was a good opportunity to show him that caution is always a good approach. As we drove home, my mind was turning this over and over…..what if this is some kind of perverted prank and the “gift” is really a framed picture of something really scary or sexually graphic……what if it’s a crazy person giving out bomb-packages to unsuspecting people…..Did he give any presents to any one else at the coffee shop? I couldn’t remember, I wasn’t paying attention. I don’t even remember him walking in, and to be honest, I couldn’t tell you what he looked like, what kind of car he drove or any important identifying details of that nature. I just remember his empty grocery-shopping bag.
As soon as we walked through the door, P announced to Mr. C what happened at the coffee shop. So I handed the package over to Mr. C and told him I thought it best if he opened it in private and let us know. G, in all of her 14-year-old thought processes, piped in: “It’s probably porn and he was stalking you!” P, in all of his 11-year-old innocence, asks ”What’s porn?” I, in all of my 43 years of existence, suddenly feel very weary.
Mr. C opens the package on our bed, P waiting patiently in the hallway. After a moment, P comes to me & hands me a small note, where the following is scrawled out: This is a coin collection….it’s better to give. Merry Christmas.” The gift was a framed print of Canadian collector nickels and their descriptions…..along with over a dozen nickels matching those in the print, some dating as far back as 1924, each in its own little cardboard pocket with a cutout in the middle to show the coin.
I was mystified and flabbergasted. All four of us crowded around, looking at this most unusual gift….and yet not so unusual. My son has been collecting coins for the past few years and he & Mr. C are always rooting through Mr. C’s change to see if any old or unusual coins have turned up. I read the note again. This is the strangest occurrence…..I don’t know if he had other gifts in his shopping bag and if he gave any to anyone else at the restaurant. In my recollection, it seems like we were the only ones he gave something to. Regardless, how ironic that he should give this particular package to a boy who collects coins….it’s like kismet.
As I write this, my mind is spinning with possible explanations for this man’s actions….what if it’s stolen property? But Mr. C. quiets my suspicious mind by saying that it’s just somebody who wanted to give this away and thought of a unique way to do it. Ok, so it’s probably not stolen property…..what kind of thief would include a handwritten note with the ”stolen” merchandise that he was trying to get rid of?
In my dramatic imagination, I’m going with the following possible scenario: this man is alone in the world, is faced with his impending death, and is slowly giving away his treasures, hence the “It’s better to give” reference in his note.
OR he may have made a decision to simplify his life after an illuminating, life-altering event or epiphany, and what better time of the year to give away his valuables then Christmas?
OR maybe this was his father’s coin collection, and maybe his father while on his deathbed, requested him to do this unusual give-away, and the son, puzzled, asked him how will he know who to give the gift to, and the father answered: You’ll know. And so maybe P gives off a “coin collector” vibe and the man knew he had to give the coins to P when he walked into the coffee shop.
I thought of putting an ad in the paper that read: To the kind gentleman who gave my son the coin collection at Tim Horton’s on Thursday, December 23, 2010 at approximately 8:15pm…..thank you. But that might embarrass him, even if I didn’t give any personal identifiers.
Here’s what I really want to say to him:
Dear Sir,
Your very small act has caused very big ripples in my heart. I try to lead a life where I forget myself to be present to others, but I so fall short of the mark. I become jaded and cynical, especially at Christmas, and for no reason. I have abundance and blessings every single moment. I get caught up in acquiring, even though what I acquire is small in comparison to others’ material acquisitions. But small or big, it’s all the same racket, and only serves to alienate people from each other. Preoccupations with “getting” abound at this time, and like kids at Christmas it’s a childish view of the world that should be left in childhood. I’ve been moaning with a full belly about how I never have time to do what I think is important, that Christmas is all just one big commercial downer, that parenting is the hardest job I’ve ever done and why the heck doesn’t anyone warn you about this before you have children (like you would listen….). You may have caught me unawares this evening with your gift, dear Sir, but I don’t think that it was random or coincidental. Nor do I think it was meant only for my son. The physical object, yes, the coins were meant for him. But the act itself was meant for me.
Sometimes, when someone is searching in her heart to know how to heal her soul, and what can she do to feel close to God again, her caring husband will hold her in those moments and with great wisdom and simplicity (because he knows her better than she knows herself), he will say: What if you prayed about it?
Sometimes, when someone takes that advice and opens her heart to God on a morning before work and figuratively falls on her knees, asking for His guidance, He gives a sign. Maybe not right away. Maybe it takes a few days, and one night, when her mind is not on her troubles, there’s the sign at her elbow, giving her a gift with a handwritten note that says: “It’s better to give.”
Dear Sir, I may be extrapolating something completely far-fetched from a completely meaningless encounter. But you appeared as quickly and quietly as you disappeared, and if I wasn’t the overthinking type, I would have accepted this for what it is, a kind person giving something to a stranger. This whole event would be out of my mind, and I would be in bed by now. But I’m here, writing, and it’s going on midnight, which means it’s almost Christmas Eve Day. Everything this week that has led up to tonight was like a whisper from Someone, and if I wasn’t so darned sensitive, I might have missed it altogether.
Dear Sir, I was paying attention tonight, even if you caught me by surprise.
It IS better to give, and with gratitude I’ll pay it forward. Amen.
I’m still not exactly sure what I’ve been given tonight by this gentleman’s actions; all I know is that sometimes, you don’t need to know, you just need to open your heart and feel it transform you. I guess that’s what faith does. That’s what faith is.
Now I can go to bed. Goodnight, and merry Christmas to you and yours.
Love,
Chantal xoxoxo
