It
was the Christmas I was eight years old.
It
was coming up on two years since my Grandma had passed away suddenly
and unexpectedly from a brain aneurism. My Grandpa was in the midst
of being treated for prostate cancer and suffering from his continual
affliction of early-onset rheumatoid arthritis. In my memory,
Grandpa was never well, but he was particularly unwell that
Christmas.
The
Peters family had gathered at my aunt and uncle's newly constructed
home that year. As was still the custom in our family then, before
the gifts were distributed, the grandchildren were all required to
perform some Christmas item for the grandparents – a line from
their Sunday School Christmas program or a Christmas carol on their
instrument of choice. This, of course, made me terribly nervous, but
I dutifully recited my verse. I recall my much more sophisticated
16-year-old cousin, Myrna, chose to play an ambitious piece on the
piano, dramatic and loud. To my eight year old mind, she was being
very inconsiderate, performing such a piece for my Grandpa who I was
sure had a pounding headache. Why else would he have had to lie down
later?
And
then! The most anticipated time of all – the gift exchange!
First,
the cousin gifts were exchanged. This particular year, my gift came from Renee
– a huge Barbie poster to colour where all the black outlines and
negative spaces were a black fuzzy velvet material. It came with its
own set of four markers. This was very exciting but I was looking
forward to my gift from Grandpa; the gift from grandparents was
always bigger and more valuable. What would it be this year?
And
then, there it was.
The
gift wasn't even wrapped.
Grandpa
simply handed me a shiny, yellow wooden baseball bat.
I was
confused; this was my Christmas gift?
I was
devastated; this was my Christmas gift.
But I
hated baseball. I already knew I was no good at baseball and never
would be.
I
wanted to cry. But I couldn't, not with all my aunts and uncles
watching me. I couldn't cry in front of Grandpa and hurt his
feelings. It wasn't his fault he didn't know what to get a girl
without Grandma there to help him.
So I
struggled mightily and kept the tears in, but my disappointment must
have been evident.
The
candy bags, filled mostly with peanuts, were handed out, the paper
wrapping collected, the aunts went to the kitchen to get supper
ready, and my Grandpa found a dark back room to rest in. The uncles
stayed visiting in the living room, the cousins went off to play with
their new toys, and I looked at my bat.
What
was I going to do with this gift, this gift that I didn't really
want? Even at eight I could appreciate the trouble Grandpa had gone
to to procure gifts for all his grandchildren on his own. He didn't
know I hated baseball. But he had cared enough about me to give me a
gift. And probably like all “old” people, he liked baseball and
figured this was a great gift.
I
don't know that I would have been able to verbalize any of my
ruminations that day, but I picked up my new yellow bat and started
carrying it around, using it rather like a cane. I didn't love
baseball, but I did love my Grandpa and this is what he, a man of
very few words, had given me to tell me he loved me.
As I
hobbled into the kitchen with my bat, an aunt commented from across
the counter, “It looks like Donna has made peace with her gift.”
* * *
That
yellow bat served me well. I never did develop a love or skill for
baseball, but I always used that bat in family baseball games, even
after my younger brothers advanced to aluminium bats. It was light
and yet substantial enough to connect with a ball to send it flying,
theoretically at least, anyway!
I
have kept that bat all these years and in even more recent years, I
have used it to teach my kids to play baseball, much to my
incredulity. I have turned out to be a better baseball teacher than
player. All three of my kids seem to have good success hitting balls
with that bat. It is no longer shiny, it is no longer yellow, but it
is still both light yet substantial, and it always reminds me of my
Grandpa and his gift of love.
The
past six months of my life, I have been struggling with a “gift”
from God. A gift that was not on my wish list, that I specifically
did not want. But here it is in my life. I am ashamed of my
ingratitude and resistance, but there it is: a gift that is a
burden. I may well not develop a love or a skill for this gift, but
I do want to develop an appreciation for the demonstration of God's
love that I believe, somewhere buried deep, this gift is, and I want
to become a better recipient for the lessons this gift is sure to
teach me if I am open enough. I want to make peace with my gift.
Every
good and perfect gift is from above,
coming
down from the Father of the heavenly lights,
who
does not change like shifting shadows.
James
1:17
