But this year the offspring took matters into their own hands. They orchestrated a Pollyanna. With an ornate and highly interactive system each person was responsible to give to three other people. Only three. Exceptions were made for John, for whom it is also a birthday. I was amazed. Three people? I could do that without leaving the house.

 

Since there were to be no interstate travels this season everyone needed to also provide transportation for their offerings. The twins and I had fun filling a box for California, and sent it off in what I thought was good time. Apparently not. I tried to find a ride on Facebook for a box from Chicago, but the givers missed the deadline. The senders from California were on top of things and handed it to the post office by the 12th. No problem, except that it didn't arrive. 

 

At the appointed time yesterday we connected over three time zones for a visual opening of gifts and conversation. Gradually it leaked out that none of us had received anything. There were the more clever among us who sent things via the internet, and Uncle Roy clicked send on his purchase for Lukas even as we spoke. Zing. It whizzed past all the carefully taped boxes sitting in mail trucks somewhere.

 

While the wow factor for many of us went down a few notches overall, Zack opened one gift all day, some other people a few more, it was a broad step away from overwhelm. We instead filled the day with playing games and helping with dinner. For two hours we laughed and played a hybrid of charades and Taboo. Zack won the prize for least effort expended, when he conveyed the word Ireland with a nod at Hosanna. The rest of us let out a flurry of nouns and adjectives until we hit the place she is headed to next week. 

 

The whole experiment taught me something. I have been bullied by the expectation from the world around me that my marriage needs to be ever more exciting and complicated. How can I call it a marriage if we have never been on a cruise? How can I know he loves me if I have no diamonds?

 

My gift to John, which was for his birthday since he was not one of my select three, was simple. The embroidery I made for him thirty three years ago when we were engaged was homeless. The oak frame had broken and we had never replaced it. But this year I did. Finally the Lord's Prayer in Greek, worked back before we had any idea what the wanderings of our life would resemble, smiled out of a simple frame whose ivory mat made the beige wool more muted by contrast. But it felt honest. Our life together has left us aged and wrinkly.

 

Yet the prayer with which we began is as resilient as it ever was. It has opened our minds and led our footsteps across our own rivers, protecting us from our own version of wolves. 

 

 

 

 

 

* presents per person

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Joy Feerrar

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