Operation Christmas Child: Shoeboxes, Chaos, and Christmas Cheer

Before my husband’s death, Christmas was my absolute favorite time of year. Even now, I can still feel that same sense of magic I felt as a little girl of four, when my earliest Christmas memory was of a cold December morning. Back then, it was just my mom and me. Every year, she’d start the season by baking cookies — the smell of vanilla and cinnamon would fill our small home, wrapping it in warmth. I’d sit on the floor playing with my toys, watching her move around the kitchen, singing along to her favorite song, “Breath of Heaven” by Amy Grant. It is not truly Christmas in my family's home until my mother sings Amy Grant while cooking. I love you, Momma.

Now, as a single mother myself, that memory hits differently. I understand the quiet strength it takes to create joy when life feels uncertain — the prayers whispered over cookie dough, the deep hope that everything will somehow hold together. Christmas can be hard for so many. People are wondering how they’ll put food on the table, let alone presents under a tree. That’s part of why I love Operation Christmas Child so much — it’s a small, tangible way to bring hope to someone else’s life, even when ours feels messy or tender.

Every November, when the weather cools down, the grocery store aisles mysteriously start smelling like cinnamon pinecones, and Amy Grant starts defrosting, I know it’s time for one of my favorite traditions: Operation Christmas Child.

If you’re not familiar, it’s a program where churches and volunteers pack shoeboxes with small gifts, hygiene items, and school supplies to send to children around the world. The idea is simple — fill a box with love — but let me tell you, after decades of doing this, there’s always at least one moment where I question my spatial reasoning skills and my ability to close a lid.

This tradition goes way back for me. My family has been participating since I was a kid. Every year, my mom would announce it was “shoebox week,” and my siblings and I would pile into the car with all the excitement of a mini shopping spree, at the dollar store, that came with a side of purpose. We’d each get our own box, and mom would remind us — “Pick things that’ll make a child happy, but make sure the box closes.” To this day, I’m not sure we ever succeeded on the second part.

We’d start practical — crayons, notebooks, toothbrushes — the usual. But then the toy aisle would call our names, and suddenly we were deep in negotiations over whether a glitter jump rope and a stuffed monkey both “counted as essentials.” By the time we got home, the kitchen table looked like Santa’s workshop exploded — there was wrapping paper, stickers, and a serious debate about who got to use the sparkly tape.

Packing the boxes was always a family event. My brother was the designated “lid enforcer” (his job was to make sure they actually closed), and my mom somehow managed to make everything fit like she was playing Tetris on expert mode. We’d listen to Christmas music, sip hot chocolate, and laugh until someone inevitably sat on a box to keep it shut.

Now, as an adult, I still do it every year. I might not have my siblings there to argue with over who picked the “coolest” toy, but that same feeling of joy and excitement always comes back. There’s something so heartwarming about filling a box with small things that might mean everything to a child you’ll never meet. I watch my girls venture down the aisles as they choose their items. I am teaching so much more than giving to others over the holiday season. I am teaching that even when you do not have much, if you share what you do have, everyone can have something.

It’s easy to get caught up in the busyness of the season — the shopping lists, the decorations, the endless “to-dos.” But Operation Christmas Child always brings me back to what it’s really about — giving with a joyful heart. It’s not about perfection (thankfully, since my wrapping skills peaked in 1999), but about the love behind it.

So if your church participates, grab a shoebox, get creative, and have some fun with it. Channel your inner kid, throw in that extra pack of crayons, and don’t stress if the lid bulges a little. That’s not overpacking — that’s just overflowing Christmas spirit and some Amy Grant.

And if anyone asks why your box won’t close, just smile and say, “There was too much joy to fit.” 🎄