I know that if I try to tell this story out loud, I’ll cry, like, ugly cry. But I also know it’s important to share.
I honestly can’t remember the first year my husband and I adopted a family through Giraffe Laugh for Christmas. Maybe 2008? What I do remember is the picture I took: a few gifts, some toilet paper, shampoo, and two stockings for the kids. My husband was, and still is, adamant that every child gets their own stocking. We didn’t have kids then, but we had enough to share.
Over the next few years, we adopted more families. Not many sent notes back, which never bothered us. We weren’t doing it for the thanks. Though admittedly, one year I wrote in the card, “Hope you have a safe and happy holiday, and hope you can pay it forward someday,” maybe out of selfish frustration.
As time went on, we told a coworker about what we were doing, and she wanted to help too. Then more people joined in. We grew our little tradition into something bigger, enough to support families through Giraffe Laugh and even some through other local programs. Most wish lists were simple: clothes, shoes, gift cards for gas or toiletries. I had a whole system down: coats and shoes from discount stores, great deals on clothes, and gift cards for essentials. Between all the helpers, we usually covered everything for $200–$500 depending on bonuses.
Then came the year that changed everything.
One child asked for a gaming system — a Nintendo DS — along with a game. It was the first big-ticket item we had ever seen. And, of course, that was the year bonuses were small and generosity was stretched thin for everyone, including us.
As usual, we waited until the end to fill any remaining gaps, and by the time we got to that child’s list, only the DS was left. We were down to the last of our budget. I was ready to just buy the game instead and be done. But my husband stood there in the aisle, quiet for a minute, and finally said, “We should get the DS. I’ll use my Christmas money.”
I agreed. So we bought it and sent everything off to Giraffe Laugh.
About two weeks after Christmas, we received a letter. Normally, it was a typed thank-you note, but this time it was handwritten. It was from the mother of one of the families we supported.
She wrote that we would never know what our gifts meant to them. She explained that when her son first opened the Nintendo game, he did not jump in excitement. His body just sank. She tried encouraging him, telling him there were more gifts to open, but he couldn’t shake the sadness in his stomach. He couldn’t find the holiday spirit most kids should have at that moment.
He opened the rest of the gifts. The socks. The coat. The other necessities. All wonderful things — but he couldn’t stop thinking about the game.
Then he opened the last gift.
The Nintendo DS.
And he broke down sobbing.
What was a simple decision to us was earth-shaking to a young child.
The mother went on to explain what we didn’t know: months earlier, the boy’s father had given him a DS, but later pawned it for drug money. So when the boy opened the game without the console, it reminded him of what he had lost: a sense of trust, stability, and the dependable presence every child deserves.
When he opened the DS, when he realized someone out there cared enough to give him the one thing that felt taken from him, he felt hope again. He had faith in humanity again.
I think about that boy every single year.
It reminds me why I keep paying it forward. I am loved. I have enough. I have so much to give. I may not be the best at volunteering my time, but I never hesitate to donate to GL and other causes every holiday season.
The gifts we give now look very different: bikes, dollhouses, bags and boxes overflowing. Sometimes whole carloads. And we love every bit of it.
Because somewhere out there is another child who just needs one moment — one gift — to feel hope again.