What a hand-colored Hot Wheel—and rural Virginia roots—taught me about true Christmas giving

I used to think the perfect Christmas presents needed to be pricey—until a tiny Hot Wheel showed me that meaning has nothing to do with money.

We’re officially within days of Christmas—and if you’re anything like me, there are still plenty of gifts left on your shopping list. 

I love Christmas more than any other holiday. From decorating the tree to attending small town gatherings like the Christmas in Historic Chatham lantern lighting, there seems to be a sense of magic around every corner.

But not every aspect is holly jolly—I generally stress about picking out presents hardcore. That’s why this year, I’m doing my best to remember that the true value of the gifts that stay with us—the ones we cherish, display, or keep tucked safely in a drawer—rarely come from the number on the price tag.

Which brings me to the Hot Wheel sitting atop my writing desk. 

It’s not a rare model. It isn’t a collectors item that could fetch a hefty price on eBay. But I’d choose keeping it over owning the fanciest sports car in the world any day. And I’m serious about that.

Growing up in the Danville area—where one-in-four city households currently meet the federal poverty line—my family always had food on the table, but we were far from wealthy. 

So when I started earning my own money as a teenager, I developed a mindset that the best presents were the ones that stretched my paycheck the farthest. I spent my first check on a pretty (and somewhat pricey) red coat for my mom. Years later, when I had an even better-paying job, I bought a name brand watch for my dad.

It wasn’t that I was being particularly altruistic. Gift giving has always been my love language, and for a long time, it made perfect sense to me that spending more meant loving more. 

My parents, of course, always told me to “save your money,” “buy something for yourself,” or “just make me something.” It took becoming a mom myself to truly understand why they’d say those things.

I remember sitting at my desk writing an article when my little boy, a 5-year-old at the time, barreled into my room. He held something close, but I couldn’t quite see what it was. 

A few weeks before, he’d gotten into some permanent markers and started “customizing” his monster trucks and Hot Wheels with new “paint jobs,” mimicking some YouTube videos he’d recently watched. 

Being 5, many of the designs kind of looked like the artwork on that paper cup from the ‘90s. You know the one. 

“I made this for you because you love Christmas,” my son said, proudly holding the creation in his little hands. 

It was a one dollar Hot Wheel, complete with a slew of abstract red and green marker strokes.

The holiday was months away.

I took it, looked it over, and complimented his creativity. Then, without even thinking about it, I set it on the top shelf of my desk. It fit perfectly right beside a little ceramic mouse I bought on a trip with my mom a few years ago and a few knickknacks. Colton’s eyes got big.

“That’s where you put your special things,” he said. 

I looked at its placement again and at the different small, eclectic objects in that space. He was absolutely right. And none of those pieces were things that screamed money. They represented little moments packaged with memories. 

Sometimes, the big milestones shape us—the promotion you wanted, the deed to the home of your dreams, the good news you’ve been waiting for. But just as often, it’s the tiny, unexpected ones that do the quiet, meaningful work. A tiny handmade gift, like the one Colton spent time crafting especially for me, can change our perspective in a way that the big events simply couldn’t.

That car sure wasn’t expensive. In fact, I was the one who actually bought it. What made it so meaningful was the intentionality behind it that forever shifted gifting for me. 

In those precious moments, I’m fairly certain my heart grew three times its size—like another notable holiday character. The simple Hot Wheel was a reminder that love doesn’t need to be big or impressive or wrapped with a bow to be real. Sometimes it’s the smallest, most imperfect gifts that reach into a part of our hearts we didn’t even know was waiting.

Years later, I still struggle with wanting to give everyone a great gift. But now I understand that the perfect present isn’t something I have to hunt down, stress over, or put a specific budget on; it’s something that comes from truly seeing someone and loving them well.

Christmas magic isn’t wrapped in shiny paper. It’s found in the moments when someone says, in their own special way, “I thought of you.”

Because sometimes the smallest offerings end up being the ones that stay with us forever. Like the little customized Hot Wheel on the top shelf of my writing desk. 

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