Gifts that Matter

Dec. 28, 2025

Reflecting on the last month, I close my eyes and feel glimmers of gifts that soften my resistance to receive, that make me feel seen, heard and loved, that make me feel whole. The gifts do not come with return receipts. I would never send them back. I hold them close in my heart.

During Thanksgiving week, I spent five hours with a dear friend. She took the chugga-chugga Rock Island train to downtown Chicago, we shared a cup of tea, and we went for a walk in the mist and fog off of Lake Michigan. We commented on the gifts of Chicago’s urban planners - the huge green vases boasting Douglas fir branches, red holly, and birch tree logs, the red brick walkways, the bows, and the murals. We strolled by the Field Museum, the Shedd Aquarium, and the Planetarium - all treasures from generations past, some from the late 19th Century Chicago World’s Fair. We walked along Monroe Harbor and admired Navy Pier as we reminisced about the old days of Chicago Fest, Luther Allison’s Blues, and music that rocked our souls as teenagers. We marveled that we lived through those raucous times. She always had more sense than me, and I thanked her for it.

We walked the River Walk and admired the cranes building yet another skyscraper. We stopped at the windows at Macy’s, and my friend told stories of her family’s Christmas tradition of bundling up, driving downtown to see Marshall Fields’ Christmas display, and heading home for her mother’s homemade chili. “We didn’t spend a dime,” she said. And the memories stay with her. And I can imagine her family around the old wooden table while her dad had a smoke and a Peps, his shortcut for Pepsi.

We’ve been friends since we were eight, and our relationship continues to morph and grow as we change and age. Her mom is turning 90 in six weeks, and she is the only mom still living out of my childhood friends. I love this woman. She’s a talker, and she makes life easy. She bakes, rides her bike, and tells the stories. I get to listen and savor. I love my friend’s family, and I grieved with her when she lost her beloved father and brother. She shared my grief when I lost my parents and two brothers. We’re in this life thing together.

The gift is more than friendship - it’s togetherness. It’s the feeling that I am not alone.

I receive her friendship. She is the embodiment of kindness and loving intentions. I do not hold her at arm’s length, and we delve deeply into philopsophical concepts. We often agree to disagree. I do not back away when she offers her love to me. I receive it.

We went to lunch and split the check. No questions asked. We did not play the I-Insist-On-Treating game. There’s no proving how much we care about each other.

We walked through Nordstrom Rack and she looked for the tapered candles her mom likes to use on her Thanksgiving table. We found them, and in the meantime, I found the Goldilocks’ Christmas candle, a scent not too strong, not too weak, just right for Christmas tree gazing.

I checked with Laura. She took a whiff and said, “Oh, that’s nice.” I bought two.

We meandered with no agenda, walked through Trader Joe’s and glanced at labels of sauces, crackers, and dips not found at our respective grocery stores. We each filled a cloth bag. When she left to catch her train back to the Southside, I shoved a Christmas candle in her bag. Her eyes lit up with the delight of a child, “Nancy! You goof!” I felt our unified joy - not at the gift, but at her response, her acceptance, her laughter. She showed me how to receive with lightness.

When I was little, my mom struggled with presents. My dad would give her jewelry or clothes or a beautiful robe, and she would open it with a look on her face stating, “You should not have done this. You should not have spent the money.”

I inherited this. My poor husband was at a loss for twenty years on what to get me for Christmas. Every gift got returned for the cash because I thought it was too expensive. I did not know that I was making him feel like he could not get it right. He did not know that I felt unworthy of such gifts.

Laura’s lit-up expression over the $12 candle took my breath away. She showed me another way to be. Thankful!

A few weeks after my day with Laura, I was blessed again by a walk with a friend in Chicago. As we strolled toward Navy Pier, I told her that I was a lector at 12:10 at Old St. Patrick’s daily mass. Our plan was to arrive by noon. By the time we turned west to head toward Adams and DesPlaines, I feared we would not make it. I miscalculated the distance and the timing.

We jaywalked as we cut across intersections. I looked at my watch and said, “We’re not going to make it, Mol. It’s okay. Someone else will read.”

“We can do it, Nance,” she said. We started running. In full-length winter coats, hats and mittens, we hauled our middle-aged bodies and took the church steps two at a time. We got to the pew just as the priest stepped on the altar. The presider was Father Tom Hurley, brother to one of my close friends and one of the kindest human beings on the planet. I was immediately relieved. No scolding from him that I should have been early.

I approached the altar stealthily and asked, “Tommy, which of the two alternative readings is the one for today?” Once in a while, there is a choice, and this was one of those days. I’d read them in advance to prepare.

He walked me to the lectern, pointed out the scripture, and smiled, “You’re reading today, Nancy?”

“Yes,” I whispered and slipped back to my seat next to Molly who was sweating profusely, her face damp with drops from our sprint. We were soaked under our coats as we peeled off the layers.

“We made it,” she said.

“Yes, only because of you, Mol. I would never have run those last seven blocks. I can just imagine you in a marathon cheering everyone around you on.” She smiled. I’m sure she told fellow runners they could finish with her in the 26.2-mile trek through the city seven years ago.

When it was time for the reading, a man two rows in front of us stepped up to the altar. Molly looked at me. I tried not to laugh. Father Tom Hurley glanced at me and asked, “Who’s on first?”

The man did a beautiful job of delivering the scripture.

I figured out later that I had clicked the phone app to sub but did not check for confirmation. He must’ve simultaneously signed up. I learned. Not so much how to use the ministry app, but I learned what it feels like not to fear anger about my screw up. I witnessed amazing nonjudgment from Molly, someone who does not get mad or frustrated when I make a mistake.

Father Tom Hurley’s homily was about how Mary did not ask the Angel Gabriel, “‘Why me?’ as in why do I have to take this on, why do I have to face scrutiny and bear the birth of our Savior?’ He asked us to consider how we can be the manifestation of Christ’s mercy in this world.

It sounds whacky, but I felt this manifestation of compassion, acceptance, and belief from Molly. I feel it from her all the time. And I’m so lucky to feel it from my husband, my children, my fellow Reframers, my friends, my contemplative community. It feels so safe. I’m so blessed.

After mass, Molly said, “I’m glad you thought you were reading. We would have missed that great homily if we didn’t run here.” I cried silent tears of gratitude - gratitude for the presence of Christ’s mercy in this world. Here was evidence. Lucky me that I get to feel it so deeply, especially when I goof things (especially when it comes to technology).

When I look back on this past month, I feel the presence of Christ in others in moments of nonjudgment, understanding, connection, unity. These are the greatest gifts. Gifts of love. A walk with my daughter, laughter over a Polar Plunge, exuberance over the Chicago Bears, game playing, collective trivia answers, singing, dancing, praying - and being silent.

Suffering is not going anywhere. I feel it in others and in me, and I also hold space for great joy, incredible love, and intense gratitude. I’m learning to accept that not everyone wants to connect in the same way I do. I’m learning not to yearn for what will never be. I’m learning to see the glimmers - because they’re everywhere in you and in me.

“Rejoice and be glad!” Receive the gifts. Let your heart sing with gratitude for the presence of goodness in others and in you. This may be my mantra from 2026.