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Today I was given the gift of time.  Time to wrap gifts with my youngest granddaughter so that we could mail them across country.  Time for lots of conversation about the people they were for, time for three-year old fingers to help hold scotch tape and choose gift tags, time to make another batch of fudge.

Time to spend the afternoon in second grade, helping with the Christmas activities on the last day before vacation.  Time (way too much time) driving in gridlocked traffic and standing in line at FedEx to ship said packages.  Yes, there was time to get them there by Christmas, the young man said.  “That will be $125.50 for the big one,” and I interrupted him before he could finish.  At first I thought I had misunderstood, but he really did say $125.50.  That box will not be arriving by Christmas.

Time to facilitate gift-wrapping by two young sisters who made their Grammy stay in her room while they giggled, conspired, and used tons of scotch tape to wrap a myriad of small gifts they proudly placed under the tree without adult help.

Time to ooh and aah at the presents my daughter brought home to delight those sisters, to anticipate their reactions Christmas morning.  Time to be reminded that I must share them with their daddy’s family occasionally, too, so they won’t be at church with me Christmas Eve (not a time for me to be greedy).

Time to realize how truly blessed we are.