It was 5th grade, and tomorrow was Mrs. Scott's birthday. How could I be finding out about this now?!? We lived way out in the country and I knew we'd never be able to go to the store tonight, and I didn't have any money anyway. I'd missed the 4th grade teacher's birthday and was determined to not be caught off-guard this year, and still, here I was.
I racked my brain all the way home and into the evening. I went to my mom who was stirring dinner to tell her my predicament. She thoughtfully continued to stir, then said in a delighted, wide-eyed expression (like she'd just discovered gold nuggets under the bed), "I know what you can give her!" I brightened. "You do? What?"
"There's a sack of pheasant feathers in the closet on the back porch." My heart and my face sank. That didn't sound like a present. It sounded well, weird. She read my face and my mind. "Go get it. It will be fine," she said, in a tone that you did not argue with.
I trudged to the back porch closet, thinking this was once again a "homemade" solution when I wanted to be a store-bought girl. I shoved open the sliding closet door, revealing a mountain of fabric, bags and boxed of miscellaneous items, and saw the wrinkled brown paper sack. I opened it and saw the smallish bundle of feathers.
"Do we have any wrapping paper?" I hollered. "If we do, it's in that closet." Several minutes of unsuccessful "rearranging" provided nothing. Great. Just great. I will now be giving her a wrinkled brown paper sack that weighed nothing. And was nothing.
The next day at school kids starting putting wrapped presents on Mrs. Scott's desk. I had to figure out a way to give this to her in private when no one else was looking. She decided to not open presents until right before the end of school, so I was filled with dread the entire day. No one noticed my present in my hands, as it looked like an old partial sack lunch.
With each perfume bottle or powder she opened, she smiled widely and said, "Oh thank you, this is lovely." With each I got sicker to my stomach. I couldn't stay after school, or I'd miss the bus and there wouldn't be another ride home.
Finally with no other presents to open, I had no choice but to jut my hand out and give her the bag. "Sorry it's not wrapped," I said softly, wincing and wanting to be invisible. She opened the bag and let out a gasp. "Oh thank you!" she exclaimed, suddenly revealing the difference between polite acceptance and true gratefulness. "Pheasant feathers! These are amazing!" My classmates looked at me like I was dirt (at least it felt like they did).
I got on the bus heading home feeling happy and pondering what had happened. Mom had known exactly what she'd like. She'd met her at my parent teacher's conference. But how did she know? She knew because she was a kindred spirit. A fellow artist who liked to create things, things from nature. I knew that in my head about my mom, but had missed seeing it in my teacher (even though it screamed at us every day with the little things Mrs. Scott crafted for us.)
I wish I could say I got better about reading people and giving just the right gift, but I still struggle. I have to always ask the Master Giver of Gifts what I should give, if it is to be anything worthwhile at all. And He is faithful. In a way, He answered my own prayer through my mother. Imagine if I had not trusted the solution that was given to me that day!
A few weeks later Mrs. Scott gave me a gift, a beautiful bookmark decorated with pheasant feathers. Perfect for an avid young reader like myself, and a reminder that some of the best gifts are not "store bought".
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