Party-Favors

It was someone's birthday party, I can't remember who's. I must have been about seven or eight. Birthday parties were always a highlight. What short-stuff wouldn't get excited about hanging out with friends of the same age, eating cake, playing games and running around without a care in the world? Everybody's happy, and whatever hardship might have existed before the party seemed to vaporize the moment you walked through that door and saw streamers, heard laughter and smelled sugar wafting from bright, primary colors of solids and liquids. The anticipation was almost as much fun as the party. And the best part of all? Party-favors. I knew that giving was supposed to be better than receiving, but I always felt better receiving than giving, and the party-favor satisfied that selfish craving to leave with more than I came with.

This party is etched into my memory though because I'll never forget what I received as a party-favor that day. I can't even remember his name, but I know that he was less fortunate than me. His family didn't have what we had and for whatever reason couldn't afford to throw a fancy shindig. I had certainly built this one up in my mind to a greater degree than reality (which seems to be true of most expectations). My disappointment reached an epic level when I received my parting gift. It was wrapped with newspaper and held together with masking tape. It was evident the birthday boy decorated it himself; he certainly put a lot of care into it to ensure each angle was meticulously folded. Not wanting to open it in front of him I took it home. Covering the package with my hands, hiding it from my Mom with a titch of embarrassment, I walked to the back porch and unwrapped it in secret, almost afraid to see what was inside. An old, worn out paper-back book was unveiled with tattered pages and a cover that flaked the flimsy cardboard painting because of the crisscrossed wrinkles and folds. The title was one I'd never heard of. I started to cry, and my mother came out to ask me what was the matter. I showed her the book, and she was so sweet not to shame me for my ugly feelings. (That's the way my Mom is.) Tenderly she knelt down at my eye level and tried to explain what only an adult can understand and a young heart cannot embrace. My mother didn't need to shame me that day because to this day I remain ashamed of myself. I wish now I could go back in time and tell him how thoughtful it was to give me that book, and most of all that he labored to make it special for me. And I wish now that I had more acquaintances in life that could only afford to give me a worn-out hand me down as a the best gift they had to offer. I'm afraid I live in another league. I wonder who's most fortunate.

This story I pass down to my children so they'll remember. I'm reminded because of the recent birthday party Poppy and Willow attended for little Meredith, also adopted from China about the same time as Poppy and providentially a neighbor right down the street. Their heritage from the other side of the globe, born hundreds of kilometers apart from one another in a vast country brought two families together that wouldn't have connected otherwise, even though we're only houses away from one another. That too is shameful. Meredith's party was perfect and what a joy it was to celebrate her entree into the world with a family that loves her so. Poppy and Willow received more than a old, used book as a party-favor, and Poppy immediately began to hoard the best of both bags of gifts to choose which she wanted most. It was at that moment I recalled my birthday story revealed above, and oh how I wished I could have conveyed it to Poppy in a meaningful way just then. Someday she'll understand, I hope.

What kind of a gift is a beat-up, bruised, disfigured and butchered body of a perfect man to me? If I were to see it with my own eyes, I'd be abhorred. But grace, the gift I never deserved or merited, covered my eyes as spectacles bringing full clarity to what only my blurred and naked vision clouded. Looking through it I now find the beauty of the Man, and am grateful He didn't come wrapped in adorning color and with fanfare. He's my old, used up paperback that contains the very words of life itself. I couldn't have asked for a more perfect favor, clearly more precious than any gift I might have brought to the party.

"My distant friend out there that handed me my perfect party-favor that day, whatever your name is/was, I thank you. And I'm so dreadfully sorry I scorned your grace."

Tom