Time: The Only Christmas Gift You Can’t Return

It happens every year like clockwork.

As Christmas Day approaches, there’s a mad dash to the retailers—online carts filling up, parking lots packed, delivery dates looming, and that familiar pressure to “get it right.” And strangely, the longer you’ve known someone, the harder it can be. What do you give a person who has everything? What do you give a person you’ve been giving to every year… for years?

Then there’s the other layer—the social math of gift-giving. The unspoken fear that you’ll leave somebody out, or make somebody feel less-than, or accidentally give something they don’t need, don’t want, or quietly resent. You start shopping for peace, not joy. You start buying “proof.” Proof you remembered. Proof you care. Proof you’re still connected.

I’ll be honest: I get caught up in this craziness too. And sometimes I wish it would all just go away.

Because at some point, a question creeps in that we don’t like to sit with: what does any of this have to do with the birth of Christ?

How did a holy story—God stepping into human history—turn into a national sprint for shirts, shoes, gadgets, and gift receipts? It can feel like we’ve esteemed the wise men’s gifts as greater than the birth itself and what it meant. Now let me be clear: this isn’t a blog to challenge the practice of giving gifts on Christmas. It really isn’t. Giving can be beautiful. Giving can be love in motion.

But I do want to offer an alternative—especially for those of you searching for the “perfect gift.” The gift that is priceless. The gift that cannot be replaced. The gift that cannot be returned, exchanged, upgraded, or matched by a better sale next week.

That gift is time.

We talk about time like it’s endless. Like we can “make it up.” Like there will always be another weekend, another holiday, another visit, another phone call, another conversation that goes deeper than small talk. But time doesn’t work like that. Time is the one asset you spend every day whether you want to or not—and once spent, it’s gone.

I think we forget just how limited time is because we count it in ways that make it feel abstract: years, decades, “back in the day.” But when you start counting time differently, it stops feeling abstract and starts feeling urgent.

I’m 63 years old. That may seem old to some and young to others. I met someone the other day in their 80s, and if you’d told me they were in their 60s I would have believed you. It made me think: how do they view time? What does a year feel like when you’ve lived that many?

Here’s one way to see time for what it really is: count it in seasons.

There are four seasons in a year, and they come once a year—no matter how busy you are, no matter how much you buy, no matter how many plans you make.

So if I’m 63 years old, that means I’ve seen:

And the truth is, I live in California, so some years it feels like I’ve mostly seen 63 summers.

Now let’s break it down further.

If you count time in months, it gets sobering fast. Twelve months per year times 63 years equals:

12 × 63 = 756 months.

That’s it. 756.

Think about how small that number feels when you compare it to anything else we treat as “real.” If it were 756,000 dollars, that barely buys a house in many parts of California. If it were 756 dollars, it wouldn’t pay rent anywhere I know. If it were 756 minutes, that’s barely half a day.

Now think in days.

There are 365 days in a year. Multiply that by 63:

365 × 63 = 22,995 days.

22,995 days sounds big until you put it next to the way we live—rushing, postponing, assuming, and spending emotional energy on things that won’t matter in the final accounting.

If those 22,995 days were dollars, you couldn’t buy a new car. Maybe a used one. It might be enough for a down payment on a home—if you’re using FHA financing—and even then, we’re talking “barely.” For many households, it wouldn’t represent three months of a true emergency fund.

The point is not to obsess over the math. The point is to feel the finiteness.

Time is not a metaphor. Time is not a vibe. Time is not a motivational quote on a wall.

Time is life being spent.

The Bible gives us language that is blunt—but not cruel. It’s honest. The old phrase “three score and ten” is another way of saying seventy years. That idea comes from Psalm 90:10, which frames the length of life as something fragile, brief, and uncertain.

Now I’m not claiming a guarantee or a limit. I’m not putting God in a box. But I am saying this: when you apply that standard to your life, it changes how you think.

If I use seventy as a personal reference point, then from 63 to 70 is seven years.

Seven years sounds like a lot—until you count it.

Seven years equals:

Eighty-four months.

Two thousand five hundred fifty-five days.

That’s not fear. That’s clarity.

And yes, I pray the Lord lets me see 70, 80, 90—maybe even 103. But I don’t know. You don’t know. None of us knows. All we know is that time is moving, and one day, time will be up.

And that brings me back to the original question: what can you give someone that cannot be returned?

Time.

Here’s the irony: we don’t really appreciate time until time is no more.

We learn the value of a phone call when there is no one left to call.
We learn the value of sitting at a table when a seat becomes permanently empty.
We learn the value of laughter in the room when the room goes quiet.

My parents have died. Friends have passed. Children grow up and build their own lives. And when those changes happen, you realize something that is both simple and devastating:

You don’t miss the gifts.

You miss the moments.

You miss the unplanned conversations, the walks, the car rides, the “tell me about your day,” the long pauses where somebody finally tells the truth, the shared meals that weren’t perfect but were real.

So why is it that we know this—experientially and intuitively—and still ignore it?

Because we live in a culture that trains us to value what can be counted, purchased, displayed, or posted. We value outcomes over presence. We value appearance over intimacy. We value performance over relationship. And sometimes we value the symbol of love more than love itself.

That’s why time is such a radical gift. Time cannot be faked.

You can buy a gift and never know a person.
You can spend money and remain distant.
You can wrap something beautifully and still avoid the hard conversation.

But time? Time requires presence. Time requires attention. Time requires you.

Some people hear “give time” and think it sounds sentimental. But I’m talking about something practical—something that can be planned and executed like any serious investment.

Because time is an investment.

Here are a few ways to give it in real terms:

Give undistracted time.
Not time with your phone half in your hand. Not time while your mind is elsewhere. Real time. Present time.

Give listening time.
Not problem-solving time. Not correcting time. Listening time. The kind that lets a person finish a thought without interruption.

Give memory-making time.
A meal. A walk. A movie night at home. A day trip. A simple routine repeated consistently. Memories are not made by grand gestures; they’re made by repeated presence.

Give service time.
Help someone clean, organize, move, repair, apply, prepare, plan. For many people, time is love in action.

Give reconciliation time.
Some of the best “gifts” you can give are the conversations you’ve avoided. The apology you owe. The forgiveness you’ve delayed. The truth spoken with love.

Give legacy time.
Time with children and grandchildren. Time telling stories. Time teaching. Time passing down wisdom, faith, and identity. Everybody wants to leave “something” behind, but the first thing you leave behind is how you made people feel when you were with them.

And for those who still want something tangible under the tree, you can pair time with a simple symbol: a handwritten “time voucher.” Not a joke—an actual commitment. “Lunch once a month.” “Saturday morning breakfast twice a month.” “One evening a week with phones off.” “A weekend trip together by March.” Put it on the calendar. Make it real.

Because love that isn’t expressed becomes questionable, even if it is sincere.

The birth of Christ is not about spectacle. It’s about presence.

God didn’t send a concept. God sent Himself—into time, into flesh, into struggle, into the ordinary. And if that doesn’t reframe what we call “a meaningful gift,” I don’t know what will.

So yes—buy gifts if you can and if you want to. Bless people. Be generous. Celebrate. I’m not against any of that.

But don’t miss the superior gift.

Give someone time.

Give them the one thing you can’t earn back.

Give them the gift that says, without words: “You matter enough for me to be here.”

And if you do that—if you give time with intention—you may find that Christmas feels like Christmas again.

Thank you for reading this blog. I appreciate your continued support in raising awareness about the issues that impact our relationships, families, friendships, and the institutions and environments—political, social, and economic—in which we live and work. Please share this blog—and explore my other articles and videos—each one created to educate, empower, and uplift. Together, we can challenge the belief systems that hold us back and press forward into openness, love, consideration, and peace—opening doors of opportunity for all.

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Eric Lawrence Frazier, MBA
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