After returning home from surgery, I took a seat on the couch, reached for the remote, and promptly fell asleep for about five hours. When I awoke, the remote was still in my hand, and my wrist had been leaning on the remote control holder so long that I had a long, deep, red indentation in my skin that took a day to disappear.
I also had a gift awaiting me.
Somehow, the parents of my students had managed to deliver a gift while I snoozed, including a delicious edible fruit arrangement, generous gift cards to two of my favorite restaurants,. and a signed copy of Seth Wickerhsam’s It’s Better To Be Feared, a recently released book about the New England Patriots (and perhaps my classroom management style).
I can’t tell you how much this meant to me.
I’ll be out of school for two weeks, and I’m going to genuinely miss my kids during that time. Knowing that they (or at least their parents) were thinking of me meant the world to me. And somehow managing to land that gift on my doorstep just hours after my surgery was damn impressive.
The following day, my friend, Tom, arrived at our home with an unexpected lunch for me:
McRib and fries.
Pretty glorious.
I found out later that my client and friend in San Fransisco was in the process of having a McRib delivered to my home via DoorDash when I sent her a photo of Tom’s delivery.
I’ve never been a huge gift person. When you lose all of your belongings to homelessness, you lose your emotional attachment to things. Objects become transactional and temporary. I know people who have experienced homelessness who feel the same.
But admittedly, I’m starting to feel value in things again – especially those pertaining to Elysha and the kids – but it’s still not close to the nostalgic joy that my family feels about so many objects in our home.
But when real thought is put into a gift – both in terms of the choice of gift and its timing – it can mean a great deal to me.
Last year, a student handed me a letter on the last day of school, just before leaving the classroom as my student for the final time. It may have been just a letter to her, but to me, it was a gift to be treasured. An extraordinary note from a student who will miss forever.
Just recently, she came back to the classroom to say hello. I told her that the letter remains in my bag, atop a collection of papers and cards that I remove from my bag every day.
It’s the first thing I see when I sit down at my desk, and I reread it often.
She told me that a letter I sent her last year is pinned to her bedroom wall. She rereads it often.
She gets it. I’m not surprised.
It’s also why Elysha is such an extraordinary gift giver. None of the gifts that she has ever given me are ostentatious, overly expensive, or bedazzled. They are simple things:
Commissioned paintings of my childhood home, my grandparents’ home, the map of my Boy Scout camp, and my dog, Kaleigh. Toys and trinkets that I use in my classroom every day. A signed copy of a Kurt Vonnegut novel. A sand wedge.
No fancy watches. No electronic doodads. No cashmere sweaters. Just simple, meaningful objects with enormous thought behind each.
There was a lot of thought behind the gifts that the parents of my students and Tom delivered to me post-surgery.
The fruit was delicious, and post-surgery, it seemed better than ever, like my body was craving something fresh and good.
The soup from one of the restaurants was a perfect post surgery dinner.
The first five chapters of the book have been excellent, and the inscription from Wickersham is pretty great.
The McRib – once the onerous pickle was removed – was extraordinary.
The gifts were lovely. Yummy and perfect in every way.
The thoughts behind them meant everything.
