“Give, but give until it hurts.”
― Mother Teresa
I wrote this story long ago, but Christmas brought it to mind and I searched it out. If ever we needed to have a giving spirit it is now, here in this country, in this world. I have followed my own advice this Christmas giving to the USO, a food bank, and various other charities. It does not make me perfect or holy. But the pittance I give makes me feel that I am blessed to have my daily needs met and that I should be mindful and kinder to those who are a little less fortunate.
Give Till It Hurts
I thought about her again today—the lovely doll I handed over to a stranger years ago. I was nine years old and proudly wore the beads of the Campfire Girls. It was time for an annual event co-sponsored by Georgia Power—the collection of dolls for less fortunate children. Georgia Power supplied the dolls to various groups, and in turn, members of the group dressed their doll and returned it for the Christmas giveaway.
I remember thinking that she was not very interesting when my nude doll arrived, complete with flaming red hair. She was a blank canvas waiting for the stroke of genius to turn her into a thing to cherish. That genius would be my Mom, in many ways, for this was the year she would teach me the true meaning of giving.
My mother, the seamstress, looked through her available scraps. It looked like we were in luck when some green satin surfaced. Mom suggested we make a long gown and coat for the doll, and that I cut while she would sew. We also decided that I should craft some pearl jewelry to set everything off. The days that followed were a flurry of green satin—cutting the pattern, basting and working toward our masterpiece. She was beginning to come into focus this lump of a doll, and I was beginning to think how beautiful she was going to be.
My Mom stitched, I continued stringing the pearls, and my plain Jane doll magically turned into a Susan Hayward look-alike. She was breathtaking, and I began to have a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach—sorrow, no doubt, that I was going to have to give her away. Each day, each stitch, nearer to the breakfast where we would hand over our dolls, seemed to make me more forlorn. I think the green satin was possessing me, for I was getting a twinge of that green-eyed monster, envy, as I thought of having to give away my beauty.
But the fateful day arrived and my Campfire Girl troop made its way to the Georgia Power breakfast for the massing of the dolls. We had a nice breakfast, a great song fest—I still remember belting out “We Are Marching to Pretoria ”—and then it was time. The dolls were collected for placement in the doll tree. Georgia Power would take the dolls, place them in a circular fashion resembling a never-ending tree, and display them in their huge glass window on Atlanta’s Peachtree Street. The breakfast I ate seemed like a weight in my stomach, and something akin to tears seemed to lurk right behind my nine-year-old eyes. But, a Campfire Girl never flinches, so I had to buck up, and watched my doll disappear to be put on display.
I managed to make it through the rest of the morning’s activities. Then we went downstairs to see the doll tree, which was put together while we sang. It was a wonder—just the thing that would spark a girl’s imagination—dolls, rising in a
gorgeous tree effect, wearing all manner of beautiful clothes, highlighted by gleaming lights. It was a dream. Floating there, somewhere in the middle, was a doll in a green satin dress and coat. Surely she was the loveliest doll I had ever seen, certainly the loveliest one in the tree. I was bereft, how could I ever think of letting her go? How could this happen?
Then my mother spoke. She talked about the times she had wanted just such a doll. She had read my mind, and knew I was conflicted. She told me that some little girl somewhere would take our precious work of art and love her and keep her close. It was our duty to do these things. Yes, it might seem sad to have to give her away, but I should think of that little girl out there and how she would feel.
I did, and I still do. I’ve always wondered who got our “Susan,” and how she felt when holding our creation. Years later I would read “The Gift of the Magi” by
O. Henry, and I would discover his story of unconditional love. The story details a wife who sells her hair to buy a watch fob for her beloved, and a husband who sells his watch to buy hair combs for his wife’s beautiful hair. I already knew this lesson of sacrifice. I had learned it at nine, from the woman who raised me. Sometimes we must truly give up something to make just the right gift. We should not consider ourselves, but only the recipient, rich or poor, who would benefit from our giving. You see, it is the giving that makes us whole and conveys our love. I learned that long ago from a scrap of green satin and a doll I gave away.