Putting Christmas Away
by Janene Wolsey Baadsgaard

In the weeks following Christmas, most parents dig tinsel from the carpet and vacuum dried pine needles from children’s stockings. These annual chores are sometimes annoying but not too difficult. It’s deciding what to do with all the wonderful, creative handmade gifts from your children—that’s what gets to you.

Pencil holders made from potato-chip cans, laminated bookmarks with school pictures peeking through the hole punch in the top, construction-paper Christmas trees, and clothes-pin tree ornaments are lurking in every corner waiting for judgment day.

Even the nonsentimental parents find themselves brooding over weighty decisions like, “What do I do with these ninety-seven paper snowflakes?” Someone’s little heart or future bonding capabilities are depending on this “to-throw-away or to-not-throw-away” decision.

Well, the caterpillar magnet has found her home on my refrigerator, the bookmarks have all found books, and the pencil holder has found a place on my desk. But where do I put the gift I didn’t deserve?

My guilt gift one year was a pint-sized mason jar filled with water and a million tiny pieces of white paper. There was a hand-scribbled note taped to the jar that said, “Merry Christmas, Mom. I love you.”

This gift stands out because several weeks before Christmas I found someone in the bathroom with the door locked. After knocking politely a time or two, I beat on the door with my free hand (the other was carrying a messy diaper attached to the baby who needed changing) and yelled, “Who’s in there? Open up!”

My nine-year-old daughter dutifully obeyed and opened the door with a sheepish grin. That’s when I saw the mess. The whole bathroom looked like a scene from a North Pole expedition. There were little pieces of paper everywhere—on the counter-tops, in the sink, on the floor, in the toilet and the bathtub.

“I just cleaned this bathroom,” I said in disbelief. “What on earth are you doing? Why would you want to cut a piece of paper into a million pieces and make such a mess?”

I didn’t really give my daughter a chance to answer. I changed the baby and left. “Now get this mess cleaned up,” I said, closing the door in a huff behind me.

When you’re nine years old, finding a part-time job is a little difficult. Spending money is rare. But when you love someone, you get desperate and search for creative ways to make gifts.

On Christmas morning, I opened a carefully wrapped gift that consisted of a pint-sized mason jar filled with water and millions of tiny pieces of white paper. I was a little confused.

Grinning, my nine-year-old daughter walked over to me, took the bottle, shook it back and forth, and said, “Look, Mom, a snow scene just like those they have at the fancy stores.”

I glanced from my young daughter’s beaming face to the mason jar, and suddenly it had become the most beautiful snow scene I’d ever seen. It was more exquisite than the glass figurines in the fancy store on Main Street.

That mason jar still sits on my chest of drawers today because I want to remember that real gifts seldom come from expected places and are even less seldom appreciated or acknowledged. The best gifts are little-noticed sunsets, a warm hand on the shoulder, and a snow scene in a mason jar where a million tiny pieces of white paper remind me to search for and appreciate the truest gifts of all.

LDS Living Magazine