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.

Wrapped with Love

It happens every year, right about the time the first snow sticks to the sidewalk and the radio starts crooning about chestnuts roasting on open fires. The Great Gift-Giving Debate begins anew. Should gifts be thoughtful or practical? Homemade or store-bought? Wrapped in elegance or entangled in three feet of tape and one questionable bow?

For some of us, the joy of giving is as natural as breathing. We see something in July that shouts, “This would be perfect for Margaret!” and tuck it away for December. Others… well, we wander the aisles on December 23rd hoping inspiration will leap out somewhere between the candles and the socks. Both approaches have their charm—and both come with their own brand of holiday drama.

There’s a certain kind of humor in watching ourselves wrestle with the meaning of a “perfect gift.” We tell ourselves it should say something about how much we care. But then we remember that nothing says love quite like a warm pair of slippers, a tin of shortbread, or a flashlight that actually works when the power goes out.

Now, let’s talk about the real holiday test of character: wrapping. There are two kinds of people in the world, those who can fold, crease, and tape with surgical precision, and those who look at a roll of paper and think, “Maybe I should just let the store do it.”

Last year, I decided to take the professional route. It seemed sensible. I handed over my gifts to a department store clerk who swore she had a “system.” I returned an hour later to find my presents looking like they’d been auditioning for a glossy magazine shoot. Each corner crisp, each bow perfectly puffed. I should have been delighted. But instead, I felt… cheated.

The problem was, they didn’t look like me. My usual wrapping jobs tell a story, of late-night determination, too few scissors, and tape that somehow ends up on my sleeve. There’s something comforting about the slightly lopsided bow or the patch of newspaper used in desperation. It’s evidence that I cared enough to try.

So this year, I decided to go back to my roots. I put on some music (Bing Crosby, naturally), made myself a cup of cocoa, and surrounded myself with a battlefield of paper, tape, and ribbon. The results? A few minor casualties, one roll of paper that tore at the last second, and a ribbon that refused to cooperate, but when I finally looked around, the chaos made me smile. Each gift looked like it had been wrapped with love… and a dash of comedy.

The thing is, no one really remembers the wrapping. They remember the moment. The laughter. The story that gets told every year about the time you used duct tape because you ran out of Scotch tape. The joy isn’t in perfection, it’s in the giving itself, and in knowing that your effort, however humble, is part of the magic.

A thoughtful gift doesn’t need to cost much or sparkle under the tree. Sometimes, it’s a batch of cookies shared with a neighbor, a scarf you knitted during cozy evenings, or a simple letter that says, “You matter to me.”

Being around others, helping where we can, and sharing our laughter, that’s the real wrapping paper of the season. The gifts we give from the heart are the ones that keep unwrapping themselves, long after the ribbons are gone.

So, whether you’re the type who measures your corners with a ruler or the type who hides the odd wrinkle under extra ribbon, take heart. Every gift you give carries your unique touch. And who knows? That might just be the best gift of all.

The Great Gift-Giving Debate

 Every December, without fail, the great question returns like a well-wrapped mystery: what makes the perfect Christmas gift? Should it be practical, a pair of sensible socks, a new kettle, or the world’s most efficient can opener? Or should it be thoughtful, something personal, heartfelt, perhaps even handcrafted?

Somewhere between the “it’s the thought that counts” crowd and the “it’s on sale at the mall” crowd lies the rest of us, wandering the aisles of good intentions, clutching a shopping list that seems to grow longer by the hour.

There’s a kind of gentle comedy in the art of gift giving. We’ve all been there, holding up a pair of fuzzy slippers in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other, wondering which says “I love you” more convincingly. The truth is, choosing a gift is less about price tags and more about people. It’s about how well we know each other, how much attention we’ve paid, and how we hope to bring a smile, even if the wrapping paper is a little crooked.

Of course, there are those who approach gift giving like a competitive sport. They have spreadsheets, color-coded bows, and a sixth sense for flash sales. Others are what you might call last-minute improvisers, who rely on equal parts luck and charm to pull off a successful surprise. (We all know at least one person who once wrapped up a fruitcake because they forgot to buy something else.)

But underneath the laughter and occasional stress, there’s something quite beautiful in the effort itself. Even the smallest gift, a card, a cookie, a single flower, says, “I thought of you.” And isn’t that the point?

Homemade gifts have their own kind of magic. A knitted scarf, a jar of jam, or a hand-painted ornament carries not just the object itself, but the time and care that went into making it. They might not come in glossy boxes or with perfect corners, but they’re infused with personality. You can’t buy that at a store, and no gift receipt required.

On the other hand, practical gifts can be a blessing. A new set of warm pajamas, a cozy blanket, or a replacement for that coffee mug that’s seen better days can be thoughtful too. Practical doesn’t have to mean impersonal; it can mean you noticed what someone truly needs. And if that gift also happens to plug in, heat up, or charge something, well, that’s just modern love in action.

Of course, not every gift lands perfectly. There are the annual re-gifted candles, the mystery gadgets with no instructions, and the sweater two sizes too small. But even those missteps tend to make the best stories later. (“Remember the year Aunt Mary gave everyone garden gnomes?”) In the end, laughter may be the best gift of all.

And then there’s the question of value, not the monetary kind, but the emotional one. Sometimes, the most meaningful gift isn’t wrapped at all. It’s a visit to someone who doesn’t get many visitors, a phone call to an old friend, or an afternoon spent helping a neighbour shovel snow. These moments cost nothing, but they shine brighter than anything you can buy.

Gift giving, at its heart, is about connection, the small, shining thread that ties us to one another. Whether it’s a carefully chosen present or a simple gesture of kindness, it’s a way of saying, “You matter.” And when gifts come from that place, they never go out of style.

So this season, if you find yourself torn between the practical and the sentimental, maybe choose a little of both. A thoughtful gift that’s useful, or a useful gift that makes someone smile. Wrap it up with a bit of humor and a lot of love. And if the ribbon refuses to cooperate, well, that’s what gift bags are for.

After all, Christmas isn’t measured in price tags or perfect paper folds. It’s found in the laughter that fills the room, the memories made over mugs of cocoa, and the quiet joy of knowing you’ve given, and received, from the heart.

And if you do end up with another pair of socks this year, just remember: warm feet are nothing to sneeze at.

Holiday Tunes That Tug the Heartstrings

 There’s a special kind of warmth that fills a room when Christmas music begins to play. Maybe it’s Bing crooning “White Christmas,” Bublé adding his smooth sparkle, or Mariah hitting that high note that makes even the most stoic listener smile. The opening bars of a familiar carol can stir something deep inside us, a mixture of joy, longing, and gentle reflection that only this season can summon.

 Music has a way of painting pictures in our minds. A few notes and suddenly we’re there again, standing beside the old record player while the tree twinkles in the corner, or humming along while wrapping gifts at the kitchen table. The melody carries the scent of pine and sugar cookies, the sound of laughter in the background, the quiet rustle of snow falling outside. It’s as if each song carries a key that unlocks the most tender corners of memory.

For many of us, Christmas music isn’t just background sound, it’s the soundtrack to decades of living. The songs are woven into the fabric of family gatherings, neighborhood caroling, church choirs, and late-night drives to see the lights. They mark the rhythm of our traditions. The same familiar tune that played during childhood might have echoed years later when we became parents or grandparents, still carrying the same emotional warmth, but now from a different perspective.

There’s something beautiful in that continuity. When we hum along with others, we’re not just singing, we’re connecting across generations. “Silent Night” might remind one person of candlelight and calm, while another hears it and recalls holding a child who couldn’t sleep. A jazzy version of “Jingle Bells” might bring back a memory of skating on frozen ponds, or the gleam of tinsel under colored lights. These songs don’t just recall moments; they bind us to the people and places that shaped them.

 And isn’t that what makes this time of year feel so full? The music doesn’t demand anything of us, it simply invites us to remember. It welcomes both joy and wistfulness, and somehow makes them coexist peacefully. Even songs tinged with melancholy, like “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” remind us of love that endures distance and time. In their melodies we hear echoes of voices we’ve loved, laughter that once filled a room, and hopes that have grown alongside us.

Listening to Christmas music with others adds a layer of warmth that’s hard to describe but easy to feel. Whether it’s a community choir performance, a caroling group visiting care homes, or simply a few friends singing along as they decorate a tree, the act of sharing music turns individual memories into collective joy. The lyrics become a bridge, connecting hearts across tables and generations. And sometimes, in those moments, we find that the best part of the song isn’t the melody itself, but the togetherness it inspires.

Perhaps that’s why, even when life has changed, when loved ones have moved away or the holidays look different than they once did, the music remains steady. It becomes a way to feel close to those we miss, to carry their presence forward in a few familiar notes. The strains of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” might bring a tear, but also a quiet sense of gratitude. It reminds us that love doesn’t fade; it lingers in harmonies and humming, in memories that surface when we least expect them.

Sometimes, we rediscover joy by sharing those musical moments with others. Playing carols at a seniors’ luncheon, singing at a volunteer gathering, or simply turning on the radio while baking cookies with friends, these small gestures ripple outward. One person’s favorite tune might spark another’s memory, leading to stories, laughter, and maybe even a dance step or two. It’s in these shared moments that we realize how naturally kindness and connection grow during the holidays. The music opens hearts, and friendship does the rest.

So when a familiar melody drifts through the air this month, let yourself pause. Listen not just with your ears, but with the heart that has lived through all those Christmases before. Hear the joy of the past and the promise of the present. Maybe hum along, even if a note or two escapes you. Because in that song, whether it’s Bing, Bublé, or Mariah, you’ll hear the echo of what makes this season so enduring: the warmth of memories, the comfort of togetherness, and the simple magic of sharing joy.

And as the music plays on, may it remind us that every carol, every chorus, and every small act of kindness adds another note to the song of the season, a song that never really ends, but carries forward, softly and steadily, in all of us.