My grown-up Christmas list.

Last week, when I was shopping with my parents in Jonesboro, Arkansas, (don’t ask) on Black Friday (again, don’t ask!), my mom asked me if I had a Christmas list of some kind.

My first response was to slowly shake my head, then mumble no. Because I don’t. Because, hello, I’m 30 years old, I don’t make Christmas lists anymore.

My second response was to start listing off and pointing out things I’d like to have. A Cuisinart coffeemaker. Clothes. Those earrings. That purse. You know, the grown-up form of the Christmas list. I may not write it down anywhere (or I might make a digital wishlist somewhere) but I have one just the same.

At first, I was proud of myself. Look how unselfish I am, so much that I can’t even think of enough stuff that I want to create a Christmas list. Then, as I thought about that incident, this memory came flooding back to me.

When I was little, my mom and I read the Little House books together. I figure my brother was involved in this reading session, but since reading was never really his thing, in my mind, it’s me and my mom and these books that I loved. Of course, I went on to read them for myself later, but some of the best memories of them are that shared time. So, in one of those books, the Ingalls are living out in the middle of nowhere. It’s been a hard year, it’s Christmas time, it seems like the river is high, and the chance of getting anything out of the ordinary in the girls’ stockings seems impossible to Charles and Caroline (Pa and Ma). But out of nowhere, Mr. Edwards fords the river, gifts in hand. On Christmas morning, the girls get a treasure trove in their stockings: an orange, an apple, a tin cup, a penny and some molasses candy, if I remember correctly.

Wait a minute! What! An orange, an apple, a tin cup, a penny and some stinkin’ candy? And that counts as a gift?! And that’s all they got?! And they were HAPPY WITH IT?!

Yeah, that’s the story. Mary and Laura got all excited and overjoyed about a bunch of stuff I’d toss straight from my stocking into the fireplace. I don’t even like oranges and apples (unless there’s a pie. . . mmm, pie). As a child that story was striking because that’s all they got and they were overjoyed with these seemingly commonplace, crappy gifts. As an adult, it’s still striking for that reason, but also because of the contentment reflected in their reactions. These were gifts, they were special because they were given to them, not because of how many there were, what they were, or how much they cost.

Contentment is a hard lesson for me to learn. I want so many things. Gadgets, gifts, music, relationships, dreams, answered prayers, shoes, an endless list of I want that and why can’t I have this. So it’s my prayer this Christmas that above all else, I receive the gift of contentment, or at least come closer to what Paul was talking about when he said that he was content in every situation (Phil. 4:11-12). Because I’m not like that. Hardly ever, anyway.

And I want to rest in the contentment that I have a God who knows the plans He has for me and knows what’s best, even when it feels like a bunch of crappy gifts in the bottom of my stocking.

(All that said, should you desire to send a gift my way, I’m not talking you out of it! I’ll even give you my address. If you deliver it personally, I might even cook for you. Or, you know, whatever. . . OK, so I’m teasing about all that. Mostly.)