Introduction - Chapter 6 Receiving The Gift

Chapter 6 – Receiving Love
I can still see her gift, lying crumpled up in the bottom of the bathroom waste basket. I even envision the tiny single bathroom in that old grey tar papered farm house. The walls were light blue as was the porcelain bowl by which the basket sat. This basket had turned out to be the final resting place for what was intended to be my Christmas present.
For those of you who have had small children, you might be able to picture the enthusiasm with which my little sister took on her endeavour. Children often do that kind of thing for the people in their lives. She was about five years old at the time, and as such found herself without the resources or the means with which to purchase anything for me. Still, for some reason that eludes me, she valued my place in her life enough to take the time and make me something.
Have you ever watched or helped a child make a gift for someone they love? I wasn’t there to help her in her creation but I imagine that lovely dark haired young lady sitting at the family kitchen table, or perhaps on the living room floor; her crayons and craft materials lying scattered before her. Carefully and thoughtfully, she would choose her favourite colours and stickers. There might have been a set of googly eyes in the top corner. Those are always pretty cool. I’ve used the googly eye craft stickers on many occasions myself.
“Mom. What do you think? Do you think Kevin will like this?”
“That’s wonderful dear. I’m sure your brother will like it very much.”
With the finished product in hand, it was time to package it. How should a little girl wrap such a gift? Should she put it in a box? No. Of course not. This present wasn’t meant for a box. This was the kind of present that deserved to be packaged all on its own. With great care, she rolled it into a small cylinder, picking out a special piece of light bluish green wrapping paper. How should one finish off such a gift? What else? The ends were carefully tied together with two pieces of light pink yarn.
Brothers and sister do often find themselves at odds with one another. Sometimes the issues that divide us from the people that we love are serious. They are things that need to be dealt with where one individual really does need to take a stand against the other. Much of the time, the issues that set us apart are not so. We find ourselves squabbling over issues that really aren’t all that significant. In married relationships, I hear about wives who get upset that their husbands want to spend time with or sleep with them. I hear of husbands who get upset that their wives actually want to talk or ask about how their day went. Imagine the nerve.
Generally speaking, the issues that arise from young siblings are not nearly as severe as those among adults, and although I can remember the sight of her gift in the bottom of the basket, I can’t recall the issues that motivated me to throw her gift away. I have a hard time believing that she had seriously wronged me. If it was some grave offense that had compelled me to hurt her in that way, I believe I might recall the source of it all. Rather than responding to any manner of a serious crime, I’m certain that spite was what motivated me to refuse the gift that she had poured herself into. Of all the things that I cannot recall, there is one tidbit that I can. I wanted her to hurt. I wanted to hurt her, not by hitting her. I wanted her to reel in knowing the fact that her best wasn’t good enough for me. I wanted to see her cry. I suppose I got what I wanted. She did cry, and I never even took the time to unwrap her gift.
The events that unfolded on that cold December morning were likely over in a few minutes, yet the regret of my actions linger now into my mid thirties. I still wonder what was inside that tiny package. I wonder what type of present a little girl would want to give to her big brother. I’ll never know. As much as I had intended to hurt her, I somehow doubt that she spends much time agonizing over that day with her counsellor. For my part, as you can plainly see, that sad day lingers on.