A Curious Gift

 

by Daniel Schantz

Christmas was a nail-biter at our house when I was growing up in the Happy Days.

Around the first of December, my mother would hand us kids a Sears catalog. “Here, boys, I need some ideas of what you want for Christmas. Just mark your wishes with your initials.”

We marked our favorites, and then the games began. It was an unspoken tradition that her job was to hide our presents and our job was to find them. At least that”s how we felt about it.

It began when we went to town on Fridays. We would stalk my mother from a distance, trying to see what she was buying for us at Sears.

When she spotted us, she motioned to Dad. “Ed, take these boys over to Woolworth”s and buy them a soda,” which was code for “I need some shopping privacy.”

As soon as we got home, we began our interrogation, which would last all the way till Christmas morning.

“Mom, about my present. How big is it?”

“Oh, it”s bigger than a penny, but smaller than a house.”

“Aww, Mom, you”re no help. What color is it? Tell me that.”

“I would say that it”s sorta fuchsia-colored.”

“Fyoosha? What”s that? How much did it cost?”

“I paid exactly what it said on the price tag.”

She was more evasive than a Russian spy.

My mother went to great lengths to hide our presents, because she understood children, and she knew we would be snooping for them. She enjoyed the challenge of hiding them, but there was one unyielding rule: “If I catch you opening any of your presents, I will take them all back to the store.”

She was wise enough to wrap the presents before she hid them, and she never put our names on the packages. She was fond of the tissue-type paper that came in red, green, and white, and she was an expert wrapper. Every corner of the package would be tight, every seam sealed. There was not one crack where we could peek inside.

However, in no time at all we discovered that the thin tissue paper could be penetrated by holding the package up to the window, where the sunlight would reveal the words on the box inside.

“It says it”s a woodburning kit.”

“Great! That”s just what I wanted.”

Then one day she caught us in the act, and thereafter she first wrapped the boxes in newspapers before adding the colored tissue.

“It says, “˜President Truman Goes to Europe.””

“Hmmm, it sounds like a game.”

 

EVERY TRICK

She knew every trick. The year she bought us pocketknives, she first wrapped them in a wad of newspaper. Then she put the wad in a shoebox, added a brick, and then wrapped the whole thing in thick, brown Kraft paper.

We found the boxes and shook them, but we were mystified.

“Whatever it is, it”s as heavy as a brick.”

When I got interested in woodworking, she hired a carpenter to build me a big workbench, painted bright red. How do you hide a red workbench? You put it in the basement, drape it with an old tablecloth, and pile junk on top of it. I never noticed it because I never dreamed she would get me something so spectacular.

One year our presents were frozen solid. She had hidden them in the trunk of the car, oblivious to the subzero temperatures outside.

She got better with practice, and sometimes stumped us altogether. Like the year she hid our presents at the neighbor”s house. When we later found out, we cried “Foul!” but she just said, “People who go snooping around have no business complaining.”

We made friends with the neighbors, just in case she tried that little stunt again, but the next year she hid them in the cold air register. We never even got close.

On the other hand, the year after that we found our presents easily, in the attic. They even had our names on them and we could tell what they were.

“Mom”s getting sloppy. This is too easy.”

Not until Christmas morning did we discover she had deliberately put the wrong names on the boxes. I was surprised to find that “my” chemistry set actually belonged to Tommy, and “his” magic kit belonged to me.

Then there was the year she hid the presents so well she couldn”t remember where she hid them. Not a problem. We had found them the same day she hid them, and we went right to them.

 

THE GREATEST GIFT

My mother enjoyed this little game of cat and mouse. She understood that curiosity is not a dark, sinister force, but rather a powerful source of motivation and pleasure. Her job was not to crush it, but to nurture and guide it.

I”m just as curious today as when I was 8. Only now I ransack the basements and attics of the world, looking for boxes of wisdom that will answer my persistent questions about life.

The librarians have to chase me out of the library at closing time.

On Saturdays I dash from yard sale to yard sale, looking for those rare and out-of-print titles and expensive books that I can”t afford to buy new.

I”m working the Web by 4:30 every morning trying to find those obscure details that will make my classroom lectures more interesting. Curiosity is a teacher”s fuel; without that energy, I would not last a month in the classroom.

My theme song is, “If you seek her [wisdom] as silver and search for her as for hidden treasures; then you will discern the fear of the Lord and discover the knowledge of God” (Proverbs 2:4, 5, New American Standard Bible).

My mother is 88 now, and she still sends me a big box of presents at Christmas, even though she can”t afford it. She would rather do without food than Christmas-giving. She always includes some homemade brownies and popcorn balls, which flood my eyes with memories.

I enjoy all her gifts, but none of them is as special as the little game of hide-and-seek she played at Christmas, a practice that added incredible zest to the season.

And to the rest of my life.

 

 

 

Daniel Schantz is a preacher”s kid and author of two series of children”s books from Standard Publishing. He is professor of Christian education at Central Christian College of the Bible in Moberly, Missouri.