The Joy of giving

The first true chill of December always carries a ghost of a memory. It’s not of a specific day, but a feeling: the sharp, clean cold that bites at your cheeks as you hurry from the car, the way the streetlights cast long, lonely shadows in the late afternoon. Waiting at the end of that chill, was the warmth of my mother’s kitchen. The memory isn't of a grand event, but of the steam fogging the windowpanes, the rich, earthy scent of simmering beef stew, the soft, yeasty perfume of rising bread dough. That warmth wasn't just a temperature; it was a presence. It was safety. It was love.

It’s this deep, deep memory of warmth that returns to me now, as the holidays whirl around us with their bright, insistent cheer. The glittering lights are beautiful, the perfectly wrapped boxes are a delight, but the most enduring magic, I’ve found, doesn't come from under a tree. It’s a different kind of light, one that doesn't flicker with electricity but glows steadily from within. It’s the warmth we kindle in our own hearts by tending to the warmth in others.

I remember a December, many years ago now, when a neighbour, a proud family named Mr. and Mrs. H, had fallen on hard times after retiring from his job. We all knew, though he never spoke of it. My mother didn’t organize a formal charity drive. She simply started cooking more. She’d send me down the  road with a still-warm loaf of bread swaddled in a tea towel, or a heavy ceramic pot of her famous stew. “Just a little extra,” she’d say. I’ll never forget the time I handed him a container of her cinnamon-apple muffins. His front door was cracked open just enough for me to see the dim, chilly interior of his house. But when he took the Tupperware, his hands, rough and cold, closed around it for a moment longer than necessary. His eyes, usually so guarded, softened. He didn’t smile, not exactly, but the tightness around his mouth eased. “Tell your mother,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “the house smells like heaven.” I  would fight with my brothers for the honor of delivering the packages to our neighbours because in that moment, I felt a sudden, surprising surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the kitchen I’d just left. I was just the messenger, the gangly kid on the porch, but I was part of that circuit of care. I had felt the chill from his house, and I had delivered, quite literally, a piece of our warmth. I carried the echo of his relief all the way home, and it made our own kitchen feel even cozier, more blessed.

This is the secret the season whispers to those of us who have lived a few of them: helping is not an obligation; it is a completion. The magic of twinkling lights and familiar carols feels most potent when it is shared, when its joy spills over to touch those for whom the world feels particularly cold and dark.

Imagine, for a moment, the scene not from the giver’s perspective, but the receiver’s. Picture a young mother, weary from stretching a thin paycheck, walking into the welcoming bustle of a food bank. The air is filled with the rustle of paper bags and the low, kind murmur of volunteers. She is handed a bag heavy with staples, but also with a small, unexpected luxury, a bag of rich coffee, a bar of good chocolate, a tin of shortbread cookies. It’s not just the food. It’s the message. It is the sensory proof that she is seen; that she is not alone. The relief that washes over her is a physical warmth, starting in her chest and spreading outwards, thawing a knot of anxiety she’s carried for weeks. She drives home, and the twinkling lights in her neighbourhood don’t feel like a taunt anymore; they feel like a greeting.

We can all be the source of that warmth. This week, as you make your own holiday preparations, consider adding one more item to your list for the local food bank. A jar of peanut butter, a box of pasta, a can of soup. Or, perhaps, donate your time, an hour spent sorting donations is an hour spent in the company of others who are choosing to kindle that same inner fire.

When you do, you won’t just be filling a shelf; you’ll be participating in a silent, beautiful exchange. You are sending your own version of my mother’s stew and muffins out into the world. You may not see the moment your gift is received, but you can feel it. You can carry the certain knowledge that somewhere, a cupboard is a little fuller, a worry is a little lighter, and a heart is a little warmer. And in the quiet of a winter's evening, that knowledge will return to you, not as a credit to your goodness, but as a gentle, radiating heat in your own soul, the truest and most lasting gift of all.