The Gift Was in the Building

Just as most children would, my sister and I asked our parents for things. We asked them to buy the toys we saw on TV or the ones that our classmates proudly showed off at school. Even at that age, we knew that the kids who had "brand-name" toys were considered cool. The kids that had the Barbies of the world (instead of the fake Barbie dolls) were not only cool — they were very cool. Naturally, we wanted the same toys and status. After all, the “real” toys mattered. Or so we thought.

Looking back, I now wonder, how did that happen? How did we know at such an early age that having a Barbie was considered "better" than having an off-brand doll? Was it because Barbies looked prettier and had more features than the other ones? Or was it because they were advertised on commercials?

In our household, brand names were a luxury we couldn’t afford. Our parents gave us gifts sparingly, and never from popular brands. Still, when they did, they explained with gentle assurance that those simpler toys were just as good. Value didn’t lie in the logo, but in the love that delivered it.

We didn’t receive gifts for every birthday or Christmas. Sometimes we received nothing at all — and slowly, we learned: love is not measured in things. Gifts are one expression of care, not the only one. That truth settled into us quietly, like light through a window.

But there was one gift we dreamed of — a "real-size playhouse," the kind that had started appearing on sidewalks in Brazil, bright and ready for sale. One of our friends had one, and we adored it. We knew our parents could never afford this little house, so we didn't even bother to insist.

Here's an example of the "real-size playhouses" that became popular for little girls in Brazil:

Still, our parents saw our wish. Instead of telling us it was impossible, they gave us something far greater.

They decided to build one.

The house where we lived for the largest part of our childhood was engineered and built by my grandfather, grandmother, mom, and dad. My grandfather was given the gift of knowing how to build things, and through lots of hard work, he became a construction worker. In the span of a month, my parents and grandparents built our home together. It was modest — one bedroom, a small kitchen, a single bathroom — but to us, it was full of warmth and love, just perfect for us.

Though my father was not a carpenter, he had helped build that home. He paid close attention to his father-in-law and learned a few tricks while the house was being built. So when he was presented with the thought of building a little doll house for my sister and I, how big of a challenge could that be?

A big one, actually. We just didn't know it yet.

He bought the wood, sand, and roof tiles. From the very beginning, he made it clear that it would take a team effort to accomplish such a daring project.

The truth is that he could have built that little house so much faster by himself. But speed was never the point.

He asked us to help. In doing so, he showed us how to anticipate needs before they’re spoken. When he picked up nails and wood, we fetched the hammer. When sweat rolled down his face, we brought water. When he wheeled sand across the yard, we scooped it into our tiny buckets, wanting to carry our share.

At first, we thought the joy would come at the end—when the house was complete, and we could play in it.

But we were wrong.

The real joy was in the building.

In the sawdust and sun, the teamwork and small triumphs, we discovered that the process itself was the gift. We learned that the best rewards come not from what is given, but from what is built together.

The most meaningful things in life are not bought. They are made — with effort, with care, and with love.