When Santa Swapped His Sleigh for a Cargo Ship

During Christmas, I stumbled upon a picture on LinkedIn of a cargo ship piled high with garbage. The image stopped me in my tracks. Though it was digitally generated, it felt painfully real—evoking a memory from a few years ago during a vacation in Maui. For an entire week, a cargo ship loomed not far from the shore. Some days, it was clearly visible; on others, it seemed like a ghost, shrouded in fog.

Later, I learned that the ship was loaded with garbage. Maui produces more waste than it can manage, so the excess is shipped elsewhere. This particular ship, however, was stranded because its destination, already overwhelmed, refused to accept the load. With no place to go, it simply lingered—a haunting reminder of our global waste crisis.

While our closets and garages overflow with things we hardly use, our oceans bear the brunt of our consumption. What should be a season of giving has become a season of excessive consuming.

Just before this Christmas, my daughter asked, “Why doesn’t our family do gift exchanges anymore?” Her question pulled me back to the years when my kids were small, and I followed the script: buying gifts, wrapping them in shiny paper, mailing them, and piling them under the tree. It felt festive. It felt like Christmas.

But then, the illusion faded. Most of those gifts, if I’m honest, added nothing to our lives. Some were forgotten by the end of the day; others lingered as clutter, a quiet reminder of money spent on moments already gone. Eventually, they ended up in storage, or donation, or the trash. And maybe, just maybe, on that garbage-filled cargo ship I can’t forget.

There was a time when a single gift—a handmade sweater—held real meaning. It wasn’t just yarns; it was care, warmth, protection. It was treasured, sometimes passed down for generations. That was the essence of giving: offering something that truly mattered.

Today, abundance has hollowed out that meaning. The one cherished sweater has become disposable T-shirt hauls, click-to-ship shopping sprees, and “doorbusters.” The cycle is relentless: closets stuffed to bursting, yet every December, we’re told we need more.

Meanwhile, somewhere out there, a cargo ship strains under the weight of our traditions.

I told my family: If you want to give a gift, make it. Invest your time, your thought, your hands. Bake cookies. Knit a scarf. Draw a picture. It’s not about perfection; it’s about intention. A handmade gift says, “I cared enough to create this for you.” That’s what I wish my gifts had always said.

This shift wasn’t easy. At first, there were awkward conversations: “Why Santa wasn’t good to you this year?” In a world where a pile of presents equates to be loved, it felt radical to step back. But I’ve realized that, like money, generosity isn’t about quantity. It’s about purpose. In finances, you save and invest in what matters; in giving, you do the same.

That photo of the garbage ship still lingers in my mind. It’s a symbol of the cycle we need to break. If we pause—really pause—and think about what we’re doing when we give, we can turn thoughtless habits into mindful acts.

This isn’t about never buying. It’s about buying what’s needed, valued, and lasting. It’s about rejecting the idea that generosity is measured by size or cost. True generosity is the love, time, and care behind the act.

My daughter’s question helped me understand this more clearly: thoughtful choices aren’t just better; they’re transformational. The lesson began with Christmas, but it doesn’t stop there. Every day, we can replace mindless consumption with mindful intention.

Because in the end, the greatest gift we give one another isn’t just wrapped in paper. It’s love. And love demands care, not clutter.

(The picture credit to a LinkedIn post)