The Best Gift

Be patient...this is going to be a long post. Mom, Mark and Janet...thank you.

Sometimes, the best gifts aren't ones that come wrapped in big packages with shiny bows. Sometimes, they don't come wrapped in a package at all. Sometimes, the best gifts are those things a person does because they love you, and most times you don't even notice.

As I have often said, the fact that I grew up in such a large family was a gift in itself. Being the youngest, for a long time I considered that to be a curse more than anything else. But obviously I was too young to notice what a rich blessing it was.

I came along at a later date in my Mom and Dad's parenthood. As they often remind me, I am a "blessing" and not an accident. The Lord creates us all with a clear plan in mind, but after raising six other children I am guessing that "plan" was difficult for them to keep in mind at times! Some really intense things happened when I was young -- when I was five, Dad suffered a debilitating stroke. He spent months in Craig Hospital in Denver, and we spent every weekend driving back and forth to Denver to spend time with him. Even after he returned home, a few weeks before I was to enter Kindergarten, Mom was spending countless hours helping him with physical therapy. He was tired, and she was exhausted. But they still remembered that my young life was their blessing from God, and so did my sisters and brother. They helped with those day-to-day things that gave Mom a moment to breathe, focus on Dad's rehabilitation, and helped keep our family together. I can't imagine how tired they were, especially Mom, but they still made time for everything that was important to me. Linda took me to countless Disney movies, to eat hamburgers and french fries at McDonald's, and gave me what Mom considered contraband (chocolate cookies with chocolate creme centers and Cocoa Krispies); Susan and John, newlyweds themselves, had me over on weekends for sleepovers; David tickled me and called me "squirt" all the time; Janet and Becky took me to the playground, played games with me, "trimmed" my hair and taught me an important life lesson -- that dipping ripple chips in pork and beans was "yummy"; and Kathy let me invade her room, annoying her to no end...and then some! In a sense, they all helped secure a childhood for me. They made sure I did things that children should do despite everything else that was going on around me. Everyone did their part, and that's the beauty of big families.

Kindergarten began, which I adored. Aside from being told I had to play in the pink playhouse because I was a girl, I loved meeting the Letter People and learning all the letter sounds -- my favorite was Miss A. I loved that big, open room with the huge windows and all of those great, wooden puzzles. I loved the graham crackers and juice being served from big trays at snacktime. I loved Mr. Kilthau, our principal, who I thought had squinty eyes but was nonetheless handsome. I loved walking to school with my Dad. I think it was part of his therapy to walk me the block to and from school, a twice a day journey. It was a slow walk for us and children would often ask why Dad walked "that way". "That way" was a miracle, really, and something he didn't know for sure he'd ever be able to do again. Those walks were helpful, in their own little way. Those walks are treasured memories for me, one of those little gifts you don't know you've been given until years later.

On the weekends, Mom would take me to the public library. Even to this day, when I think about being there, I can remember the distinctive scent of that building -- the mingling scent of old paper and hamsters (there were a few in the Children's section that I loved to watch). I remember Deb, the librarian, her voice when she read stories during summer reading programs, and how she would point me in the right direction to find a book I wanted. Like most children, I had my favorite stories, and those favorites were always sprinkled with a few I liked well enough to look at more than once: Mike Mulligan and the Steam Shovel, Katy and the Big Snow, Curious George, The Giant Jam Sandwich, Lyle the Crocodile, Harry the Dirty Dog..... But the favorites were always ones I borrowed week after week after week: Flicka, Ricka and Dicka... three fair-haired, well-mannered, polite little girls who accomplished some meaningful, heart-felt task in each story.

These are the stories of my childhood.

These are the stories that my tired mother read to me night after night, just because I asked and even when I didn't say, "Please."

These are the stories that made me want to learn to read.

These are stories that, when I read them today, make me feel like I am five years old again, snuggled in my bed under the blue gingham comforter and the fuzzy blanket, listening to my mother's soft voice read page after page, lulling me to the brink of slumber and making me feel so safe.

I received a package in the mail today from my Mom, Janet and Mark. Discovering its contents filled my heart with joy! It was a 1964 hardback edition (with the bookflap!) of one of my favorite tales of Flicka, Ricka and Dicka! Even before I opened the book, I remembered the storyline and could picture some of the illustrations in my head. Immediately, I looked for my favorite one. I found it easily. "The picnic" was always the first event in this story that I turned to. Instantly, I wanted to eat a picnic of bread and cheese and meat with those three little girls.

Standing in the sunny entryway of my house, I looked through all of the pages, each one taking me back to a different day in my childhood. I recalled one day laying in the middle of the hallway looking at the picture of the three girls gathering wild strawberries, wondering why they didn't grow that way where I lived. I remembered looking at the picture of the three girls in the doorway of the kitchen, watching their mother finger empty glass jam jars -- my own mother had some just like them, but she filled hers with dill pickles! It was like visiting with an old, dear friend. I sat down on the bottom step of the staircase and read the whole book. It is now among my few truly precious posessions.

Thanks, Mark and Janet, for finding this old book for me. It brought me back to days I hadn't thought about in a long while. Thanks, Mom, for suggesting Mark and Janet look for it, and, more importantly, for being the reason I love Flicka, Ricka and Dicka in the first place. I am so thankful that the three of you had a chance to spend time together on Christmas night, reminscing about the most trying days for our family, those cherished times, those times when He held Mom together so she could remain the tie that bound us all.

Mom, it was a precious gift you gave in reading these stories to me countless times, just because I asked. You were tired, you had your own burdens, and you were needed in a thousand other places. It is a gift I hold very dear to my heart. You are the blessing, Mom, and I see that clearly. Now, Mom, I notice.