The Gift by Phillip Hoyle

     There are at least two ways to open a gift—at least there are two ways I know. The first one is my preference.

     If the gift is handed to me by the giver, I politely and genuinely thank him or her expressing my pleasure at being remembered. Of course, if the gift giving  should take place on Christmas in a room full of hyperactive children serving as Santa’s understudy elf assistants, I read the tag and shout out my thank you across the room to the giver. And of course, I shout in the most pleasantly nice way possible.

     Then I inspect the wrapping appreciative of the design, the color combination, and the care taken in preparing the package in such a way as to increase my anticipation at what such a beautifully prepared box may reveal.

     Sometimes I try to guess what may be hidden inside considering the size of the package, its weight, trying to remember if any clues were given previously or if something I suggested I’d enjoy matches what is now in my hand. If no one is watching, I may gently shake it to listen for a clue, or sniff at it (I can always detect the presence of chocolate). Finally, I begin to open the present. I feel the texture of the wrapping, untie the ribbons, remove and set aside the bows; I carefully remove the tape and try to slip off the paper without tearing or even wrinkling it. I fold it and set it aside with the ribbons or other ornaments. I comment on how beautifully wrapped I find the gift. Then with all senses alert, I open the box to find the surprise so generously proffered. I feel the gift’s texture, study its shape, smell its fragrance, hold it up to the light, and smile my pleasure. “It’s beautiful,” I exclaim if that response seems appropriate. And I lay the gift to my side, still touching or tasting it, murmuring my thanks. Oh, I am usually such a cultured gift opener.
     
     But on occasion, I have a more impassioned and impatient approach. Then I tear at the paper, rip it open, cast it aside so eager to see what it is hiding. I break the ribbons, claw at the tape, wad up the wrap, throw it away. I pick up my new gift with enthusiasm. I sometimes scream out my pleasure. On occasion, I may get up to dance my excitement. Should that ever happen to you, my gift, just put your clothes back on and join me in my rumba.

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”