I’ve never understood the fuss over gold and frankincense and myrrh.
I doubt that Mary and Joseph could use such gifts; except to pawn them in Bethlehem for food and lodging. Why not diapers for the baby, more swaddling cloth, oats for the donkey perhaps; some better sandals maybe?
Biblical historians have answers, of course; all the symbolism you want or need to establish the story’s credibility, or a line of credit with the church to give it the weight of wealth and wisdom. And link godliness with givingness. For centuries we called them indulgences. Now it’s a tithe. Or the opportunity to give ‘til it hurts. As if we worship a god who counts his success or ours in dollar signs and new construction.
Gifts confound us.
The giving and the getting.
Almost always.
It may be the thought that counts.
But that begs so many questions.
What does a misbegotten gift mean?
One person’s treasure another’s clutter?
One person’s satisfaction another’s obligation?
Righteousness traded—the slightly smug gift, the graceless recipient
How do we receive the present that’s taunt, sermon, challenge, the giver’s heart’s desire, the best someone could figure out?
Or maybe the better question is whether I’ve lost the graciousness that renders all offerings sacred?
We treasure most the gift of another person’s understanding.
The crinolines that Mother sewed for me the year every little girl’s skirt swished and crackled. The string of pop beads she purchased for my yearning and unsuspecting second-grade heart. Janene’s small bell that rings spring. A stuffed otter. A phone call out of long silence. The puppet skunk Dave smuggled to Kansas. A sunrise-flamed crane from Liz—light in winter. Tobacco stick owl who watches me sleep. A guidebook to Europe. A flock of iridescent, lanky-legged birds. Miniature row houses that bridge an ocean’s-wide friendship. Gluten free cookies when that was my quirk. An afternoon of company in the ER. A piano.
Best of all, best of all
Bob’s clay cat perched on a clay comforter—Sooty Kitty who wouldn’t abandon our bed.
Hugo’s poem from Dave– honest, tender, more credible than twenty years of endearments. *
Both improbable choices for men who did not dally in whimsy.
Both borne of a love and wise perception deeper than I’d fathomed.
This solstice season, I hold close the many friends who have seen my soul and honored it.
But here’s the query that truly matters, above all others:
Have I ever mastered that gift of sure understanding — Of sliding softly, without fuss into a friend’s heart to learn what words, what painting, what hand-embroidered towel, what insouciant nod says “I know–you.” ©
*Richard Hugo’s poem in part:
. . . .
Under lights, the moths are momentary stars, and wives, the beautiful wives in the stands now take the interest they once feigned, oh, long ago, their marriage just begun, years of helping husbands feel important just begun, the scrimping, the anger brought home evenings from degrading jobs. This poem goes out to them. Is steal-of-home the touching of the heart? Last Pitch. A soft fly. A can of corn The players say. Routine, like mornings, Like the week. They shake hands on the mount. Nice grab on that shot to left. Good game. Good game. Dust rotates in their headlight beams. The wives, the beautiful wives are with their men.
