On Sunday, while my wife was at work, I took our two sons Christmas shopping for her. It was a dreary, cold, drizzly day, and she had already told us what she wanted. Wasn’t expecting much joy out of the experience. Just go down the list and get the stuff, right?
But then something happened – can I actually call it joy? I think I can.
I once bought a Christmas tree ornament for Linda, a fragile, glass bird with tail feathers made of fine, soft bristles, like that of an artist’s paint brush. She mentioned a few weeks ago that she loved that ornament, and wouldn’t mind having something else like it.