All I want for Christmas is world peace

Claire Doll
MSMU Class of 2024

(12/2022) "What do you want for Christmas, Poppop?"

I’m nine years old, sitting on the arm of my grandfather’s recliner chair, swinging my legs back and forth. It was only November, on the brink of December, but I was already planning my Christmas list for everyone in the family. I’d give Mom a homemade beaded necklace, Dad an ornament made from bottle caps, and my sister a coupon book. Really, at this age, I was quite creative. And everyone knew it.

Poppop smiled. My favorite things about him were the smell of his cologne and the way his blue eyes twinkled whenever I said something. With a soft laugh, he looked around the living room, and then at me. "I want world peace," he said.

"World peace?" I’m only nine. I had no idea how unfathomable this idea was.

Poppop smirked. "No, I’m just messing with you. I’ll take a bottle cap ornament, like your dad."

Laughter erupted around the room when my grandfather said this, and for a moment, I felt a pang of shame. Of course he didn’t want a bottle cap ornament. He wanted world peace, and I simply couldn’t give it to him. After all, I was only nine.

"I—I guess," I said. "Yeah, I can do that."

Poppop gave me a little hug, and then he walked away to help my grandmother wash dishes. Everyone else in the living room was talking, laughing, and eating, but I sat on the arm of my grandfather’s recliner chair, wondering how I could possibly give someone world peace for Christmas.

I thought about this for the next two weeks. November had faded to December, and the air had grown colder, smelling more and more like snow. In short, everything was starting to look like Christmas. And I still had no idea how to give Poppop world peace as a present.

Until one day. I remember looking through an old drawer in the basement, and finding a dusty, empty mason jar. Suddenly, everything clicked.

I spent the entire afternoon painting the jar with brushstrokes of deep blue and green, mixing the colors together and watching them blend, creating new shades. It looked like a globe, with different patches of green swirling into the blue of the ocean, and the colors layered just perfectly so that they still remained translucent against the glass. And then, with just a dip of red, I painted a small peace sign in the center. It was almost perfect.

What happened next was the height of my nine-year-old creativity. I took a tealight candle and dropped it into the jar. Then, I showed my sister.

"You got Poppop…a candle?" she asked, tilting her head.

"It’s world peace," I said, turning the mason jar. "See? It’s the world. With a peace sign. And yes, there’s a candle inside."

Christmas Eve arrived, and on that night, we exchanged gifts with everyone in the family. When it was my turn to give my presents, I was terribly nervous. Dad had really loved his bottle cap ornament, and Mom was wearing her necklace, but truly all I cared about was if Poppop had gotten what he asked for. World peace.

It was wrapped in twinkling tissue paper, stuffed in a striped, red gift bag. Poppop held the bag in his hand and slowly started unwrapping the gift. As he lifted the mason jar candle in his hand, a smile grew on his face.

"Claire," he said, voice lighthearted. "This is—"

"World peace," I finished, beaming. "I know it doesn’t look like the world—just some green and blue patches of paint with a peace sign in the middle—but if you light it, it might give you some peace. Not the world, but just you. I hope that’s enough."

Poppop hugged me, and I breathed in the warm smell of cologne. As he released, I watched a soft twinkle grow in his eyes. His blue and green eyes. "It’s perfect," he said. "You really got me world peace for Christmas."

"No, I didn’t," I said, laughing. "It’s a candle."

"Maybe," he replied. "But if it’s from you, it’s all I really could ask for."

And so was the Christmas of 2010, when I had given the greatest gift ever: a dusty old mason jar splashed in uneven shades of green and blue, with a jagged peace sign in the center. And a tealight candle dumped inside. World peace.

Okay, maybe it’s not the best gift I’ve ever given. But I think there is a certain magic, a certain feeling that exists only within the spirit of children during Christmas. At this age, I still believed in Santa Claus. I still left out cookies, drank eggnog, and wrote a wish list with every single American Girl Doll I wanted (I only got one, of course). Children do everything they can to cultivate and feel magic during Christmas, and one of the most beautiful things is when they do this through gift giving. When I brainstormed how I could give my grandfather world peace as a present, I took it as literally as possible. I thought and imagined with my heart, and therefore, I truly believed that what I had given Poppop was the best gift in the entire world.

Now, I give gifts that I don’t find in a random drawer of my basement. Maybe my family likes them better, but every now and then, Poppop will remind me of the Christmas when I got him world peace. The candle still sits on his bookshelf upstairs, and whenever I visit to spend the night, the little, nine-year-old part of me glows. He kept it. After all those years, all the laughter, and all the paint splatters on my skin, he decided that my tealight candle in a mason jar was worth keeping. Not because it actually was world peace, or because it was functional (because let’s face it, it wasn’t), but because it was from a nine-year-old who still believed in the spirit of Christmas—of magic, in all forms.

And sometimes, that is the best gift you can get.

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