We used to circle things in the Sears catalog at Christmas. Things we wanted. In red Sharpie. There was a KitchenAid mixer circled in our catalog. My wife had circled it. I looked at the mixer and felt depressed.

Namely, because I was 24 years old, newly married, and Christmas was not shaping up to be a good one.

I’d just been fired. I had been working on a construction crew, hanging drywall. It was a crap job. Crappy pay. Lots of dust.

Someone on the crew had been stealing expensive power tools. And rather than locate the culprit, our boss fired everyone. Every worker. Young and old. We were all jobless in a matter of minutes. Game over.

So there I was. No money or prospects. I wasn’t even a high-school grad. And worse, we were out of beer.

Moreover, my wife had already erected our plastic Christmas tree in our one-bedroom apartment. There were already gifts beneath the tree. With my name written on the labels. She had been taking extra jobs, babysitting. Moonlighting with a temp service. She had been working overtime.

But I had no gifts for her. And my wallet was light.

So the next morning, I looked in the newspaper. There weren’t many help-wanted ads. Prison guard openings available. Sanitation workers, now hiring. Electrician assistants—must be certified. Exotic dancers—no pole experience needed!

Then I came across an ad for UPS driver helpers. “Santa’s Helpers” they called them. It was temp work. Pay wasn’t bad.

I didn’t even call. I just showed up. I figured initiative is what the top brass was looking for. I stood in the office. The lady handed me an application. She had a pack of Virginia Slims in her breast pocket. Her voice was like a tuba.

She said, “Can you carry 65 pounds?”

“Ma’am,” I said, “you give me a paycheck and I’ll have your baby.”

I got a brown uniform. I was on the truck the next morning. The job was uncomplicated. The driver drove; I carried packages to doorsteps.

I met a lot of people. I wished a lot of merry Christmases. And on my first day, I realized a very important lesson about this world:

UPS guys are invisible. These men and women perform a vital human service. In many ways, they keep the world spinning. Christmas without them would be a paltry affair. And yet they are seldom acknowledged. Let alone thanked.

I met some interesting UPS employees. My supervisor paired me with many different drivers. I rode shotgun with a semi-pro bodybuilder, an ex philosophy professor, a Nashville songwriter, a Gulf War vet, a Hooters waitress, a Church of God preacher.

I ran packages. I rang thousands—no—millions of doorbells. I trotted up enough apartment building stairwells to qualify for the US Olympic track team.

By the end of the season, I had lost 13 pounds. And beneath our personal tree were six gifts with my wife’s name on them.

On Christmas morning, she opened her gifts one by one. One of the tags, on a very special gift, read: “To Jamie—From the UPS Man.”

When she opened it, her face turned three shades brighter. She cried. So did I.

And we still use that mixer today.