SixSeeds.org: Looking for that spot between scarcity and excess

By Jean Kingston 

I wore a scratchy red and black plaid dress, white nylon tights and stiff black patent Mary Janes, but my discomfort was no match for my great anticipation.  I was six years old, and my family was headed to my dad’s company Christmas party.  There was probably music, food, desserts and games, but what I remember is the brilliantly ornamented tree and the gifts sitting under its branches.  Late in the evening, the adults distributed the gifts in a painstakingly eternal process.   

“Ann?” they began calling us, one by one. “John?” “Jean?” 

When I finally heard my name, I tried to keep myself from sprinting down the aisle.  With great restraint, I clasped my beautiful gift to my chest.  Underneath the curly ribbon and pretty paper, was the only toy I’d receive that Christmas. 

“Dear God,” I silently prayed as I sat back in my seat, “please, please be something good.” 

I wasn’t raised under dire financial circumstances. Actually, I grew up with just enough - a warm house, clothes, food, and money to pay the bills.  However, my parents were Chinese immigrants and had both a frugal sensibility and a poor understanding of American customs.  Under our unmistakably artificial and sparsely decorated Christmas tree were a few wrapped boxes topped with inexpensive bows, each filled with clothes, underwear and socks – items we needed, but weren’t the ones dancing in our heads with the sugar plums.  We’d carefully unwrap our presents where the tape met the paper, so the wrapping could be used again for next year’s new underwear.

Excess simply didn’t exist in our lives - not on our plates, not on our bookshelves, not on our toy shelves and not in our celebrations.  But, in my heart I wished for something more - something to represent the good things, so that life wouldn’t feel it like it was only about saving and sacrifice.

Today, those black patent Mary Janes and white party tights are a distant memory.  We’ve finished our turkey leftovers and Christmas is just around the corner.  Every year since I’ve had my own children, I’m cognizant of how vastly different our family celebrations are compared to those of my past.  The fresh scent of our Christmas tree will permeate our home, decorated wreaths will accent the entrances and fresh garland will spiral up the staircases and there will be food - lots of it.  A pile of well-wrapped gifts will appear under the tree on Christmas morning.  Some will be practical, maybe a new set of fleecy pajamas for each child, and some not so practical.  (After all, no one practical would wear red and white fur while sliding down chimneys all night).  Our blessings create quite a different problem – the quandary of excess.

As I anticipate the sparkle in the eyes of my children - their pure and joyous delight as they clamber down the stairs and search for the presents Santa and his little elves have delivered especially for them, I hope I don’t see the drunken look kids get when they’ve had too much.  It’s the moment they become shark-eyed present-opening robots hidden under a sea of torn tissue paper – when their wells of gratitude have run completely dry.  It’s a sight we’ve all seen, perhaps at a child’s birthday party, or maybe it was last Christmas when one to two presents from every relative equaled aisles number one, two and three at Toys R Us.  It happens when things have gone awry and the purpose of the occasion is forgotten.  When I see “that look”, it forms a pit in my stomach. 

Somewhere, there’s a wonderful and magical place between scarcity and excess. It’s difficult to locate that place in our super-sized culture, but it’s where children feel loved and celebrated and the spirit of the season is palpable, a place of heartfelt gratitude, a place where giving and receiving are enjoyed in equal measures.

If we could bottle up that Christmas Eve delight, anticipation and hope, mix it with the right amounts of celebration, love and maybe a teeny bit of excess (because after all, it’s Christmas), we’d have “that moment” - the sweet combination of heaven on earth I felt on the way back to my seat, hugging that toy close when I was six years old.

Even then, I knew it was something to hold onto.