(I wrote this more than 30 years ago. As I was reviewing some of my old writings, I came across this. It touched my heart. My son now has an almost 6 year old. I’m guessing he is going to be opening one of the gifts too.)
I opened a Christmas present the other day. Not just any present—it was special. It had been eighteen years since I had received one quite like it.
I have two sons. One is twenty-four. The other is six.
When a six-year-old gives you a present, it is anything but ordinary. It may look like something made of dry macaroni, construction paper, glue, and paint. It might resemble a Christmas wreath—at least in a very loose sense. The colors may clash. The shape may be uneven. At first glance, it might even seem a little ugly.
But it isn’t.
The gift of a six-year-old is never about how it looks. It is something far more. Inside that child-made wrapping paper is a gift so profound it ought to take our breath away. And what makes it extraordinary is not its uniqueness—every parent has received this same gift—but its fullness, its depth, its sincerity, and the fact that it is given freely, without reserve.
Before I ever opened it, I knew what it contained. Not because I am clever, or because I could read my son’s mind—but because I could read his face. If you are a parent, you already understand.
I unwrapped it. It looked like kindergarten artwork. Something that might be used as a Christmas decoration. Most people would have seen only a simple ornament. But it wasn’t a trinket to hang on a tree. It was worth more than the richest person could pay.
It was a heart gift.
It was meant to be hung deep inside, where the heart stores moments for eternity. That small wreath carried every ounce of a six-year-old’s pride, completely wrapped in love.
“Wow,” I said, smiling. “That’s a beautiful wreath you made. It must have taken a lot of work. I love it. Where should we hang it?”
The widest, toothiest smile a six-year-old has ever smiled spread across his face. It stayed there for a long time. It was the kind of smile no camera could capture—because only the heart could understand what stood behind it.
“I want it on the tree,” the smile said. “Way up there, Daddy. At the top.”
So I put it where everyone who came into our home could see it. I hung it with care. Every now and then, I point to it and tell my son how wonderful it is. I hope we keep it for many years.
Yes, I hung a handmade, gold-painted, macaroni-decorated wreath on the Christmas tree. But the real gift hangs in my heart—and always will.
By God’s grace, my six-year-old will become seven, then eight, and one day a man. He will leave home and, perhaps, have a six-year-old of his own. That is good. That is the way it is meant to be.
Between now and then, there will be struggles. We will disagree. He will do things I believe are wrong—perhaps terribly wrong. And when those days come, I will need to take that gift out again and remember.
Because even when a teenager stands before me—defiant, confused, or rebellious—somewhere inside him will still live the heart of that six-year-old. That child will still love me. What determines whether that love remains visible or hidden will be how I treat him as he grows.
Raising a child is a sacred responsibility. It is full of joy, pride, laughter, and, at times, pain. But if we choose to treasure the good, the wounds can soften with time. And when we remember rightly, the wonder of parenting can fill the heart to overflowing.
Are you the parent of a teenager? Struggling? Call your child over. Sit down. Look into their eyes. Can you see it?
It’s still there.
That six-year-old is still looking back at you, reaching out, longing to be loved. Go ahead. Put your arms around them. Hold them tight. Say the things you know need to be said—especially the apologies. Don’t demand repentance from the child. Offer humility yourself.
Then go into the closet. Dig until you find that old Christmas wreath—the one made with small hands and a huge heart. Set it where you can see it. Look at it.
And remember.
“Only be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them slip from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them.”
Deuteronomy 4:9