Every year around Christmas and Thanksgiving, I buy a bunch of

Host: The evening sky over St. Louis was brushed with soft gold and dusty rose, the kind of light that feels like a memory. The city hummed faintly beneath the chill of early December, where streetlights glowed like amber stars and the air smelled faintly of snow and burning pine. Inside a small diner near the hospital, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other, the window beside them fogged from their breath and the heat of coffee between them.

Jack’s coat hung damply on the chair, his hands folded around a mug as if anchoring himself. Jeeny’s scarf was bright red, her eyes reflecting the glow of the Christmas lights strung lazily above the counter. Outside, a group of volunteers were unloading boxes of toys from a truck, their laughter carried faintly through the cold.

Jeeny: “Devon Windsor once said, ‘Every year around Christmas and Thanksgiving, I buy a bunch of toys for the sick children in the oncology center at the St. Louis Children’s Hospital. I really love giving back and putting a smile on their faces, especially during the holidays.’ It’s simple, but it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Jack: “It’s nice. But let’s not pretend it’s more than what it is — charity makes people feel better about themselves. It’s the oldest transaction in the world.”

Host: The diner’s jukebox murmured a slow carol, its melody thin and tender. Jeeny’s fingers curled around her cup, her expression calm, almost sad.

Jeeny: “Why do you always see a transaction where there’s love, Jack?”

Jack: “Because I’ve seen the other side of giving. The side where people donate to wash away guilt, not to spread joy. You think everyone who gives is pure? Most just want to see themselves as good for a few minutes.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even if their motives are mixed, the children still smile. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “It’s worth the moment, sure. But moments fade. The toys break. The kids go back to their pain. Charity can’t cure suffering — it just decorates it.”

Host: A waitress refilled their cups, the steam rising like ghosts between them. Outside, a child’s laughter burst across the sidewalk, sudden and bright, cutting through the cold.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what the world needs — decoration against despair? Even if it’s temporary? Devon Windsor didn’t heal the children’s cancer, but she gave them joy. She gave them light in a dark room. Isn’t that holy in its own way?”

Jack: “Holy? No. Kind, yes. But kindness without depth is just sentimentality. It’s easy to buy toys once a year and feel generous. It’s harder to face the real problem — why those kids are there, why our systems fail them.”

Jeeny: “You think because something can’t fix everything, it means it fixes nothing. But maybe goodness isn’t about solving — it’s about seeing. When you see someone suffering and you act, no matter how small, you join the fight against indifference.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened; he looked away, out toward the hospital visible through the frosted glass, its windows glowing like a constellation of hope and fear.

Jack: “I’ve been inside that oncology ward. I know those rooms. Machines beeping, lights too bright, air too clean to feel alive. You can’t fight that with toys, Jeeny. You can’t fight death with dolls.”

Jeeny: “You can fight it with love, Jack. That’s all we’ve ever had. Those toys aren’t about escaping death — they’re about claiming life, even if it’s for an afternoon. That’s what giving does: it says, ‘You matter now.’”

Host: The lights above them flickered, and the carol on the jukebox shifted to something older, slower, almost like a prayer.

Jack: “You sound like a preacher tonight.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because I believe in Christmas the way it was meant — not as a holiday, but as a reminder. Giving isn’t about the gift; it’s about presence. It’s about showing up when someone needs to be seen.”

Jack: “Presence… or performance?”

Jeeny: “That depends on the heart of the giver.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes half-hidden beneath shadow. His voice came softer, almost weary.

Jack: “You think people like Devon Windsor really know what it’s like — to sit beside a hospital bed all night, watching a kid fight for breath? To hold a mother who’s run out of tears? They come for an hour, take a photo, and leave. The real giving — that belongs to the nurses, the parents, the ones who never leave.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s true. But isn’t there room for both kinds of giving? The everyday sacrifice and the seasonal kindness? You call it surface, but maybe surface light still reaches the deep.”

Host: A child’s voice rang faintly through the night, muffled by the window, high and bright: “Look! She brought me a teddy bear!”

The sound froze both of them for a moment.

Jeeny smiled, her eyes wet. “That sound — that’s not performance. That’s life breaking through pain.”

Jack: “And what happens when the pain comes back tomorrow?”

Jeeny: “Then someone else brings another smile. And another. Until the world learns that kindness isn’t seasonal — it’s cyclical.”

Host: The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the lights and the clatter of a distant plate in the kitchen. Jack stared at his reflection in the window, then at the hospital beyond it.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my mother volunteered at that hospital. She used to bring me along sometimes. I remember this little girl — maybe five, bald from chemo — she gave me a paper star she made out of gum wrappers. Said it would bring me luck.”

Jeeny: “Did it?”

Jack: “Maybe. I’ve still got it somewhere. Funny, isn’t it? I came to give, but she gave me more.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand reached across the table, resting lightly on Jack’s wrist. The contact was brief, but in it lay a kind of truth — that even the skeptic needed warmth.

Jeeny: “That’s what real giving does, Jack. It loops back. The giver and the receiver become one. You gave her your time, she gave you her faith. That’s the Holy exchange.”

Jack: “And you think that’s enough to change the world?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not the world. But it changes a world — hers, yours, mine. And when enough little worlds turn toward kindness, the big one begins to follow.”

Host: The snow began to fall outside, slowly, each flake catching the streetlight like a tiny star. The volunteers were gone now, but the truck still sat there, its back doors open, revealing rows of bright boxes — bears, dolls, puzzles, and tiny trains waiting to be held by small hands.

Jack: “You always see hope in the smallest things.”

Jeeny: “That’s because that’s where hope hides. In the little acts that most people dismiss.”

Host: Jack stood, slipping on his coat, his eyes fixed on the truck outside.

Jack: “Come on, then.”

Jeeny: “Where?”

Jack: “If smiles are worth something, let’s go buy a few.”

Host: Jeeny’s laugh — soft, genuine — filled the air. She rose too, wrapping her scarf around her neck, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of belief.

As they stepped outside, the cold bit at their faces, but something bright flickered between them — not light, not heat, but the spark of shared purpose.

The snow kept falling, gentle and pure, covering the sidewalk and the city alike, until even the hospital seemed wrapped in quiet grace.

And somewhere, in a ward of sleeping children, a toy bear was being held against a small chest, its button eyes reflecting the world’s softest light — the light of people who still believed that giving, no matter how small, could still heal.