Chocolate-covered cherries have been part of my Christmas for as long as I can remember. My father wasn’t one to throw money around, but every December, there they were—sitting on the kitchen table, a small luxury in a household that counted every penny. In 1966, I could buy a full-size Hershey bar for a nickel, so I can’t imagine a box of those cherries cost more than 29 cents. I doubt my father would have bought them if they had cost more than that.
When I was in elementary school, every teacher I had received the same gift from our family: that familiar red and white box of cherries with their creamy centers and milk chocolate coating. I’m sure my parents had no idea what to buy for someone who had actually gone to college, so they settled on those cherries. It never occurred to me that I was giving them something cheap.
To my young eyes, those cherries had a grandness that an ordinary candy bar could never reach. My parents bought them because they were economical and because they genuinely believed they were wonderful. They gave what they had with dignity—albeit wrapped in the nearly translucent Christmas paper they used to wrap every gift.
Yesterday, I went to Walmart and put a box in my shopping cart to share with my family on Christmas Eve. When I saw the price on the shelf, I liked to have fainted. It felt just like someone had stuck a gun in my back and asked me to hand over my wallet. Three dollars. Three dollars! Highway robbery, my parents would’ve said.
But the mind-boggling inflation aside, what struck me was the realization that every one of those boxes of candy from my childhood is long gone, along with almost every other present I received back then. And yet the tradition, the faithfulness of my father making sure there was something sweet in the house every Christmas—that’s what lasted.
Over nearly 30 years of teaching, I received my share of gifts. Sometimes it was a 10-pack of miniature candy bars. Often it was something homemade—Christmas cookies or cupcakes. Then, during that long, hard year of 2020, one parent gave me a very nice and sturdy stainless steel tumbler in our school colors, engraved with the school mascot and my name. I can’t imagine what that cost those parents, but I still use that tumbler to this day.
The most touching gift I ever received was when one of my AP classes pooled their money and gave me a Best Buy gift card. The fact that I had meant enough to the members of a class that they planned a gift together moved me nearly beyond words.
I can say with confidence that I never received a gift that didn’t warm my heart. Outside of that engraved tumbler, all of those other gifts are long gone. But the words and the memories of the smiles from my students’ faces never tarnish or fade in my mind.
That distinction—between the thing bought and the love remembered—brings to mind my own grandfathers. My maternal grandfather died when I was three or four, and I only have one fuzzy memory of him taking me on my first and only tractor ride. My dad’s father died when I was a little older, so I have more memories of him. I can recall him being content to hold me in his lap, and even as a little boy, being held by him seemed like such a high honor.
I couldn’t have explained why then, but I now recognize that I was holding onto a cherished piece of my own history. I also remember him taking my brothers and me to the store to buy ice cream, which he paid for with coins out of the leather change purse he always carried. Living on a small pension, I now realize the sacrifice that act of love required.
Today, I am grandpa to two boys, ages 11 and 8. I have bought them gifts since before they were born, and it has always delighted me to do so. But none of the things I’ve bought will last forever; the frozen yogurt and ICEEs I buy them only last a half hour.
The gift I’m hoping to give them is the memories of a grandfather who absolutely adored and cherished them. A grandpa who was a fun, kid-like playmate, and despite his imperfections, somehow provided an example of how to live a life that honors God.
I see now that my father’s cherries and my grandfather’s ice cream were just small echoes of a much older story. I’m reminded that the best gift any of us can receive isn’t found under a tree or wrapped in translucent paper.
It’s found in the heart of the Giver of all good things, who so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son. He sent that baby to a manger so that a world of imperfect grandfathers and chocolate-cherry-givers wouldn’t have to perish, but could have everlasting life. That is the one gift that never tarnishes, never fades, and never leaves us.