One winter, I unexpectedly glimpsed a part of the holidays' true spirit. The details have blurred slightly over the ensuing decade, but the essential imprint remains ...

Boarded-up windows, brazen graffiti, shifty characters lurking on street corners. No doubt about it, this was the rough part of the 'hood. On this gray-flecked December afternoon, my church friend and I were cruising around with a list of names and addresses. My colleague's automobile, which would generally appear nondescript, suddenly felt too shiny, too new. Stories that my dad used to relay began to resurrect themselves, bona-fide accounts of hoodlums bombarding his car with rocks not far from where we were driving.

I half-desired to disguise myself in a baggy hooded sweatshirt and scuttle. However, my partner and I were on a mission. With a trunk stuffed with presents, we were attempting to provide a bit of holiday cheer to children with incarcerated parents. After months of fundraising, the kids' wish lists had been fulfilled by the generous hearts of the congregation. The blank after the word "From" on each box's label was filled with the imprisoned parent's name. Now all that was left to teams like ours was to distribute the goods.

Knocking boldly on the door of the dilapidated house, my friend called out, "Hello? Mrs. X, are you there?"

A young lady opened the door inquiringly. As my eyes adjusted to the dingy light inside their home, I was startled to see how many youngsters surrounded her. Were there eight? Or nine?

When Mrs. X realized who we were, she beamed. A Christmas without at least a few presents was almost unimaginable in my 'ohana, but here before us was a stark painting of how bare other families' holidays could be.

Regrettably, as my colleague and I traipsed from address to address, this scene of absent parents, too many mouths to feed and inadequate housing repeated itself like a pernicious pattern.

The deliveries of donations were no panacea; it would take more than a handful of presents to fill the holes left by addiction, abuse and crime.

Prison bars made for lonely holidays. However, the simple act of stopping by with a helping hand might have given the half-pints hope for a day.

Perhaps it had even inspired the children to someday "pay it forward" through their own munificence. Idealistic thinking, yes, but Christmas was as good a time of year as any to dream.

Mrs. X's offspring broke into my musings. The most unabashed shouted with glee, while the quieter siblings smiled contentedly. This year, their Christmas wishes had come true. I was not sure whether Mrs. X, her kids, or we looked more grateful.

Echoes of "thank you" and "God bless you" filled the air.

As the song goes, it was beginning to feel a lot like Christmas. Or how Christmas would be if we just took the time each year to care for other people who might not necessarily be in our comfort zone, who might never have the opportunity to give back, but who ought to be loved anyways.

When it comes down to it, we all belong to that one big 'ohana called humanity.

Monica Quock Chan is a freelance writer who lives in Honolulu with her husband and daughter.

Reach Monica Quock Chan at (Unknown address).