We went Shoebox shopping this morning. Shopping with three children in tow is exhausting in itself. But when they are each allowed to help select gifts to fill a shoebox, it’s a unique but enjoyable challenge.

We’ve been talking about it for months. Our oldest daughter, intrigued by the idea that you could choose to send your box to a boy or a girl, decided firmly that she was sending hers to a boy. And our youngest? He was going to send his box to a cow. Yes, a cow.

But after watching the movies from Operation Christmas Child at church each Sunday this fall, and making many plans together, our children had it decided: Mary Kate was packing a box for “her” girl, but Ruth and Daniel would be selecting items for boys.

The gender discrepancy proved slightly hilarious at The Dollar Tree this morning when Ruth gravitated towards the girly items only to be reminded that “her” boy wouldn’t need pretty pink hair clips.

Overhearing our not-so-quiet conversation from aisle to aisle, another Dollar Tree shopper observed, “It must be shoebox time!”

Yes, it was shoebox time.

We made it home. And for once, my children took naps, exhausted shoppers that they were. But all they could talk about was packing the shoeboxes tonight.

Daniel had barely awakened from his nap when he brought me his pajamas. “I ready go bed,” he said.

I realized later his daddy had said we could pack the shoeboxes when they were all ready for bed tonight. Smart boy. He was getting ready early.

Dinner over, dishes washed, kiddoes fresh and clean, Bible story read, we sat down on the couch. We’d rehearsed it over and over.

“What are we going to do with the shoeboxes?”

“Put them in the car.”

“And then what are we going to do with them?”

“Take them to church.”

“And then what will happen with them?”

“They will go to someone who doesn’t have gifts.”

But it was rewarding to see them following through on what we’d discussed.

Ever since he had decided he was sending to a boy, rather than a cow, Daniel had been declaring he was going to fill his box with tractors. And oh how he labored over the decisions. A backhoe was a must. And more matchbox cars made it into the cart this morning than were needed for three shoeboxes.

He fingered them carefully as he put them in the box tonight. Especially the tractor. But he gave willingly. To a little boy who didn’t have any tractors.

And they went to bed talking of “my boy” and “my girl” and praying for the children who would open those shoeboxes, “maybe somewhere I’ve never visited before.”