That for which we seek

Last week during a literature lesson on “theme,” my students and I discussed “The Midas Touch,” a short story based on the Greek myth of King Midas.

In the story, one of the Greek gods tells Midas that he may have one wish – anything in the world. Consumed by his greed for gold, the king requests that everything he touches be turned into the glittering prize. Though warned by the god to reconsider, he insists.

As a class we stopped there and I asked my readers what they would choose if they could have anything imaginable. What would they pick?

“More wishes” was of course the first request, and I felt like the Robin-Genie-Williams- in “Aladdin” as I said, “No wishing for more wishes.” Arms popped up across the room and eager voices shouted, “All the money in the world!” “A mansion!” “All the video games in the world!” “I want to own all the stores that sell technological gadgets!”

Maybe it was a loaded question I shot their way, for every wish centered precisely on the wisher.

As we continued with the story of Midas, they learned that the god granted his request. What a gift! Everything the king touched turned to gold! Everything – including his necessary food and beloved daughter. And as with every generation that reads the myth, they recognized the cold and empty life of poor miserable Midas who got exactly what he asked for.

“Now, consider again,” I told them. “Ask for something that would affect others instead of only yourself.”

I expected them to benevolently include siblings in their electronics store ownerships, or to provide matching mansions for all the family, or a wide-screen TV for a sister’s bedroom as well as their own. But they did not.

“Food for the hungry,” said one.

“Cures for diseases in Africa,” another added.

“World peace.”

How quickly they looked beyond themselves, their families and their community when given the opportunity.

Later that day I wrote each student’s name on a slip of paper, folded it twice and dropped it into a basket from which those who wanted could draw a name for our upcoming Christmas gift exchange. Their eyes gleamed with anticipation over whose name they might get and how much money they could spend, and, “Oh, Mrs. Spencer – here, I got my own name. Let me pick again.” It wasn’t the getting that excited them; it was the anticipation, the planning, the giving.

In years past, I told those participating to bring a gift for their gender: boys bring gifts for boys and girls bring gifts for girls, and they were all marked accordingly and numbered for exchange on the day of the party. But this year’s name choosing made it more personal. They giggled and whispered and hinted and guessed what that other specific person might like to receive. It was bigger than just thinking of something they would like while hoping another boy/girl would like it, too.

I noticed more excitement this year, more sparkle in their eyes, more careful consideration. This year, because of the personal touch, there was a little more merriment and a lot less Midas.

As Christmas approaches, I wonder if it’s that personal touch that makes the season so exciting, and if maybe that’s why the messengers of millennia past told those who wondered then that the thing they sought was not golden treasure, but a very personal, specific little Child.

(This column first appeared in the Porterville Recorder in December 2007. It is reprinted here with permission from the author - me.)