Friends no longer ask: what did you get for Christmas? Their children are grown, their shopping ventures minimized and simplified, a check, a book, or something sweet and consumable.  And I’ve become something of a humbug, holiday presents important only in memory, when my family was young and their excitement contagious. I much prefer receiving the unexpected gift, unrelated to a ceremonial day, delivered as a simple token of affection.

            But around this time a few years ago, I had an experience (which I relate below) that brought to mind a moving story of gifting, by the famed Chilean poet Pablo Neruda. He wrote about an early childhood encounter when he lived in a house separated by a high fence from that of a neighbor. One day the small hand of a child he did not know, but who lived next door, pushed a toy through a hole in the fence, a tiny white sheep made of faded wool. Wanting to return the favor, the young Neruda pushed his most favored pine cone through to his unknown benefactor. He and the other child never met, but many years later Neruda wrote that this mysterious gift exchange stayed with him, gave his poetry its light.

               This is an accurate but incomplete quote,  “To feel the affection that comes from those that we do not know [is] greater and more beautiful because it widens the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things. [ . . . ] Just as I once left the pine cone by the fence, I have since left my words on the door of so many people who were unknown to me, people in prison, or hunted, or alone.”

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              My remembered experience happened when leaving the local branch post office.  I witnessed a near collision in the busy parking lot just as I reached my car. I left, a bit shaken, and then upon arriving at my next destination discovered that my wallet was missing. Thinking back, I realized that when distracted by the close call, I’d placed my wallet on top of the car when opening the door, and driven off. In haste I returned to search the lot, but to no avail. Dismayed by the foolishness of my lapse and the loss, I began to mentally catalog all those facets of life contained in that zipped leather packet, the hours I would now have to spend alerting credit card companies, applying for a new license and membership identifications, the lost cash almost inconsequential.

               Home to my laptop, I began the notification process, wresting some control from chaos. The phone rang. Caller ID revealed an unfamiliar name and number which I was tempted to ignore, but then did not.

             It was Lateefa Kituku. She’d found my wallet, which had fallen to the roadway several blocks from the post office. Knowing I would be upset, she quickly assured me that everything was intact and safe. Instantly my gloom gave way to relief and gratitude. It was agreed I would pick it up the next morning at the office of the school where she is a kindergarten teacher. When I did so, I left a note of thanks and a gift for her classroom.

              My elation went far beyond retrieving important bits of paper and plastic, my identity restored. Like Neruda’s gift of the small toy sheep, this kindness from a stranger was more meaningful in many ways than a present received from a good friend, even one beautifully wrapped and thoughtfully chosen.

             Neruda’s words echoed. This gift, the kindness of a stranger, widened the boundary of my being. I felt united with a vast caring community.