Many years ago there was a single man who chose to spend time with our family. He had slim pickings in the way of his own relatives, and would show up when he was lonely. One December he gave our two small kids a gift. It was a Little Golden book, and told the story of Christmas. 

 

"This will, you know, do the trick." 

 

I was miffed. 

 

He had the audacity to suggest that his forty nine cent present would fill my children's needs for what? The details of the nativity? Satiate their hopes for bounty under the tree? The nerve. 

 

We moved across the country and have lost touch. But I have softened. He had no children of his own, and in a blend of generosity and self importance, believed that his thoughtfulness would have impact. 

 

If I am honest, I have done that too. There was a conference where I presented a workshop that I had invested an enormous amount of time into. I thought, though I would not have admitted it for a king's ransom, that this would be Meaningful to the people who came. When I was in high school my uncle asked me to play background guitar music while he read the lessons in an outdoor service, and my selfdom almost popped the buttons on my shirt. I have given quilts to people and held my breath for them to be Grateful.

 

One time I visited a friend for tea. I noticed a quilt on the wall that was familiar. 

 

"Did I give you that?" I asked tentatively.

 

"Yes! I love it!" she smiled. 

 

It was freeing, to not have the entanglement of presumptions. I had handed it to her. She displayed it in her home. That was enough. 

 

When I consider the lilies, I am struck by the gap between their loveliness and any need to be regarded as such. Even if no one gazes, or gasps, a flower blooms its very best. 

 

Most of us waffle between the belief that what we do has significance, and fear that it doesn't. Maybe the truth lies somewhere in the middle.