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Glasgow, Scotland
Words are formed by experiences, and words inform our experiences. Words also transform life and the world. I am a writer and Presbyterian minister who grew up in the 1960's in the segregated South of the United States. I've lived in Alaska, the Washington, DC area, and Minnesota. Since 2004 I've lived in Glasgow, Scotland, where I enjoy working on my second novel and serving churches that are between one thing and another. I advocate for the full inclusion of all people in the church and in society, whatever our genders or sexual orientations. Every body matters.

Monday, June 17, 2013

Found Gifts


Found Gifts

Like many traditions, this one did not start out as a tradition. It started out as a kick in the butt for a certain stepchild who will remain nameless but who knows perfectly well who they are.

It was my first Christmas after being a stepmother for a full year. Like many roles, this one did not come with instructions. It did, however, come with expectations. I had sure expectations about what it meant to live in what was now my and my new husband’s house: Where things were supposed to be kept and returned promptly after use, when chores were to be done, how they were to be done, and why they were to be done in the first place. And who was to do chores, that is, everyone who lived under our roof.

Doubtless each of my stepchildren had expectations about what life was supposed to be like “under the new regime,” as my husband, their father, so diplomatically put it. To his credit he did not try to “arrange” the relationships between me and my stepchildren, nor did he attempt to “fix” things when they seemed to be at an impasse. He would listen to me rant, and I knew he listened to his kids because he would tell me—when I was in a frame of mind calm enough to hear—their side of the story, such as, “Why is her stuff her stuff, but our stuff is her stuff too?”

As it happened, I was moving into my stepchildren’s lives just as each of them was in the process of leaving the nest. The eldest was newly married and setting up house. The youngest was finishing high school and set on going to college. That left the middle one who had their own apartment by now but was apparently settled on doing little of value with their time or talents. Menial jobs came and went, entire nights were wasted playing video games, and whole days were spent sleeping life away.

Thus when Christmas rolled around that year, instead of shelling out hard-earned money on new gifts, we gave my middle stepchild a special incentive to clean up their act: A vacum cleaner. Our old vacum cleaner. We emptied it and washed the attachments, wrapped it up in (used) gift paper, and stuffed a set of bags in their Christmas stocking. It wasn’t exactly coals-and-ashes but better—because it could suck up coals and ashes and dirt and dust and whatever else accumulated in a young person’s natural habitat. And to be fair, we also gave the other two kids recycled gifts: our microwave oven went to the college student, and Christmas tree ornaments were handed down to the newly-wed.

Hitting bottom broke the ice. What was intended as a one-time kick-in-the-rear developed into a family tradition of giving each other “found gifts”—that something extraordinary which may have been donated to a second-hand shop or consignment store (a fish carved out of a cattle horn), or given to a church jumble sale or school raffle (an old magazine published in the month of one’s birth), or left on the street (a beer glass in Reykjavik, Iceland), or even thrown away in the garbage (a suitcase full of costume jewelry). Way more preferable to expensive or last-minute gift-shopping, gift-finding has become an enjoyable year-round mission. It’s allowed me to let go of sure expectations, for which I earned the term of endearment “Step-monster,” and treasure the unique and interesting relationship I am blessed to have with each of my stepchildren. Found gifts also fulfill the adage, “It’s the thought that counts.”

Or rather, it’s the story that counts: “Lindsay, This is a special gift for you, one that I found in . . . .”

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