Five Minutes of Joy
I would be devastated if I didn’t get a bike for Christmas. I’d just turned twelve that year, and all my friends, including my older sister, each had their own bike. A brand new bike. I didn’t have one, and my sister wouldn’t let me ride hers. Rude!
Dad and Mom always spoiled the four of us kids. Christmas at our house was loud and bright and unfair in the best way. I knew we were fortunate. I’d always gotten the “big gift” I’d wanted each year. So had my siblings.
Last year, I got a three-story Barbie dollhouse with a battery-operated elevator. I wasn’t sure how they did it, but my parents pulled it off. I’d learned to let whatever sat under that stocking decide everything. If it was good, I was good. If it wasn’t, the whole day was ruined.
If I didn’t see a new bike displayed under my stocking in front of the fireplace when I descended the stairs to the family room Christmas morning, I didn’t know what I’d do. I started second-guessing myself. Did my parents know what I wanted this year? Did I make it obvious enough? Even my siblings could share what I wanted. I think I’d done enough. I’d mentioned it only a hundred times.
It was just after dark, and Christmas Eve brought the first snow of the season that actually covered everything in a fluffy new coat. It made everything look brand new. Dinner was delicious! Mom made one of my favorites: taco soup. But I couldn’t sit still.
A tradition was to each open one gift on Christmas Eve. Dad and Mom never allowed the big reveal until Christmas morning, so although there were already lots of presents under the tree, the big gifts were still hiding.
As we sat in the family room after dinner and gift-opening, I couldn’t help but let my mind wander to what the next day would bring. So much depended on tomorrow. I stared gratefully at the colorful new backpack in my lap, truly thankful my parents thought to get me one this year. My old one was falling apart.
“See you tomorrow!” Grandma waved as she headed out the front door to her car.
The rest of the night was a blur as we were ushered to bed shortly after. I lay there staring at the ceiling, riding the bike in my head instead. I pictured its thick tires slicing through the snow. I didn’t care how cold it was outside. I would ride it the second they let me.
Finally, Christmas arrived! The sun was up, and my heart thumped with excitement. I couldn’t wait to see what was waiting in the family room. We had strict orders not to leave the hallway where our bedrooms and bathroom were tucked away. I was tempted to sneak a peek, but resisted.
Dad’s booming voice finally came. “Alright, kids! It’s time to come downstairs.”
We giggled with excitement. We would go to the family room one-by-one, oldest to youngest. That meant I was second. My sister took forever to discover her new laptop. Boring!
Then it was my turn. I raced down the steps and around the corner to the family room. And there it was. The prettiest purple bike I’d ever seen! It had white tires, a basket, and a bell on the handlebar. I hopped on as my parents took pictures.
I couldn’t stop staring at it. Soon, disbelief turned to impatience. I couldn’t ride it in the house, and I couldn’t ride it outside until all the presents were opened. With four kids, my grandma, and my parents, that would take a while.
When I was finally able to ride, it was even better than I imagined. For five minutes. The thrill faded quickly. I’d done everything I’d pictured. Again and again, riding down the hill was exciting—until it wasn’t. I rolled the bike back into the garage and leaned it against the wall where it waited quietly for the next adventure.
I thought that Christmas taught me how to want. It didn’t. It taught me how to wait—and that what you really need often isn’t what you thought you wanted. The lesson has lasted longer than any bike ever could.