And I hate it.

Does that make any sense?

One of the things I love about this time of year is the spirit of generosity that emerges. Suddenly, it seems, pocketbooks are opened wider than at any other time of the year. Who can turn a blind eye to the less fortunate when our own fortunes are so apparent, well-lit as they are by the holiday lights and decorations?

In just a few days, the annual Toy Box Giveaway will again demonstrate the generosity of our communities and, sadly, the deprivations as well. That is just one of many opportunities to share with the less fortunate during this most fortunate time of year. The bell ringers will soon be in place, with red buckets full of need, and the shelves at the pantry undoubtedly will fill as fast as they empty. Surely, there are few true "Scrooges" in our midst this time of year.

Given all of that, why do I also hate this time of year?

Because as soon as it's over, it's over -- or so it seems. We box up our generous spirits along with our holiday decorations and as long as the tax man is satisfied, our checkbooks also slam shut.

I know this from personal experience. The Christmas of 1965 is firmly etched in my mind. The Carlsons were in a bad way indeed. Mom and Dad were separated, and we lived with Dad in a three bedroom, three story duplex on Capital Hill in Denver, Colo. Times were really tough. Our lives were in shambles. Without Mom to cleverly parlay a portion of Dad's paycheck into nutritious, albeit plain, fare, we were frequently hungry.

Our thin coats provided little protection from winter's wind made harsher still by the empty house awaiting us at the end of the school day.

If not for the memories of Christmases past and the decorations and parties at school, I do believe the holiday would have escaped us altogether, so great was our deprivation.

Until the night before Christmas Eve when parishioners from the Presbyterian Church next door showed up with a huge plastic bag filled with "gently used toys" and a succulent ham dinner with all of the trimmings in hand. We were overcome.

And for once, Dad, who had pride in abundance, held his tongue and allowed them to help.

Unfortunately, our circumstance remained unchanged, and in the ensuing months before my parents reconciled in March of 1966, our situation remained bleak, day-by-day, and there were no more Christmas surprises in the offing.

Oh, I've heard all of the arguments against charitable giving. To my shame, I've contributed my own ill-considered opinions, chiming right in, conveniently forgetting my own time of need, citing chapter and verse as to the overall lack of need in this land of plenty or the unworthiness of those who avail themselves of the charity of others.

Certainly, there are those of questionable character who take advantage of generous natures without any true need.

Just as surely, however, there are those hapless Carlson children, though often well-hidden behind closed doors, their public facade cleverly in place.

Either way, it doesn't matter. We are all accountable for our actions, whether of good intent or ill. Those who avail themselves of the generosity of others in the absence of need will answer for it.

Those who withhold what is in their hand to give in time of need also will give an answer, with heads hanging low, the faces of those who waited, empty-handed, before them.

And we who would do well, will do well to remember that there are 365 days in a year, not just one, in which to do well.

"And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased." Hebrews 13:16 (NIV)

Things you won't see in heaven:

Empty plates