The Perfect Present

Last Christmas, my lanky sixteen-year-old daughter, Jenna, gave me a gift so profoundly wonderful I just had to share it with you. Aware of my increasing bliss over decluttering and streamlining she labored over what gift would bring me as much joy as that things absence ultimately would. On that twinkling morning, amongst the wrappings of generous offerings, she handed me a simple white scrap of paper, rolled into a tube and tied with a little red ribbon. "I think you'll like it," she grinned with a confidence born of intimacy. This is what it said:
"Little Mammas, You are very hard to shop for. How do you buy for a woman who has nothing and likes it that way? It also doesn't help that I had very limited mall-time.
So here is your present: On the day of your choosing, you and I are going to the grocery store and buying a whole bunch of food (about now you are probably thinking: worst gift ever, well you are wrong). Next you and I are going to go downtown and give it all away to the people on the street. So what do you say? Be my kick-ass do gooder pal? Love, Jen."

It actually took us many months to embark on this excursion, but a warm day in May found us downtown with 45 homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in a huge basket. My thirteen-year old daughter Sage, Jenna and I had just come from the dentist and we were all feeling the vulnerability of the truly flossed, as our courage began to weaken. Who were we going to give these sandwiches to? I mean do you just walk up to someone on the street and assume they are hungry? Sore gummed and confused we stood on the street corner gazing at the well-fed passersby. "Are you planning to hand those out," a gentle woman asked and when we nodded suggested that we go down to the Portland Mission. "They don't start serving for awhile so people may be hungry there."

As we walked around the corner we were met with a long line of faces, most of which were more downtrodden than any dentist could procure. We slowly began to ask each individual if they wanted a sandwich and with each eager reception our courage mounted. By some stroke of good fortune the final person in line received the last morcel and as we walked back down the line we heard "thank you" after "thank you" and even some "these are delicious".

Halfway home Sage observed that we had all forgotten about our aching mouths.