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I pull the boxes of
ornaments from the closet and prepare myself for a trip into the past.
No photo album can bring back as many memories as my box of ornaments.
Like a picture, each ornament contains a memory.
There's the box of
wooden ones, handmade and painted with care. Within the assortment is a
small man on skis, a mouse on a swing, even Santa in his sleigh. I
remember when my Georgia I bought them. It was our first Christmas as a
married couple. We hung them on the tree and dreamed how our future
children would love them.
I pick up a ceramic
Santa. My aunt gave it to me when I was four. He holds a tiny box in his
hands. There’s a tear in it's wrapper, a tear caused by a boy who
couldn't contain his curiosity.
A tiny brass bell is
next. My brothers and I had fun with this bell. We took turns
hiding it in the tree. The others had to find it. We played “Find the
Bell,” until mom yelled at us for shaking the tree to make the bell ring
and reveal its hiding spot.
Mom knew how much
the bell meant to me. The year I had my own family, she gave me the
bell. I played the same game with my own children.
I pick up a pretty
red ball. My daughter touched it when she was two. We’d put Venessa down
for her nap and decorated while she slept. We wanted to surprise. We
finished I sat back with a glass of eggnog and waited for her to wake.
I see her face
again. She ran from her room, fully charged and ready to take on the
world. She was five feet from the tree, before she looked up and
stopped. Her eyes opened wide. Her jaw dropped open, as she emitted a
small cry of delight. She walked forward, raised her hand, and touched a
red ball – the ball now held in my hand.
She turned to me.
Her eyes reflected the colored lights. "Daddy, what is it?"
"It's Christmas,
Sweetie." My voice quivered with emotion, "It's Christ's birthday. We’re
going to celebrate it."
Her sparkling eyes,
hanging jaw, and soft skin made me hold my arms out. She ran into them
and gave me a hug that would have melted even Scrooge's hard heart.
I pick up a cracked
green ball, a veteran of the first time I allowed my kids to decorate
the tree. They hung all the balls on one branch. When they turned for
another, I quickly moved the one before it to a better spot. I laughed
when they told Grandma they decorated all by themselves.
Near the bottom of
the box, I find a brass plaque. It brings back a special memory. It has
my son's name and birth date on it. Justin was supposed to be a New
Year's Eve baby, but he decided he wasn't going to miss Christmas.
Justin was three
weeks old, when we took him to the Christmas Eve service at our church.
That night, our minister explained to us the real meaning of Christmas.
As she spoke, she wandered down the aisle and stopped beside us. She
reached down and asked, "May I?" I nodded and handed him to her. She
lifted him into her arms.
She was quiet as she
walked back to face the congregation. Turning, she held my son high and
said, "This is the real meaning of Christmas: The birth of a new life!"
She cradled my son
as she spoke. A single tear trickled down my cheek. She walked around
the sanctuary, displaying my son to those gathered for the Christmas
service. The room seemed empty of everyone but her and my family.
Overtaken with emotion, I reached out and hugged Georgia and Vanessa to
my side, and thought, "This will be a Christmas to remember."
In 2003 I pulled the
ornaments out again. Justin and I were not going to be home for
Christmas that year. We were going to spend Christmas with friends in
Ohio, but I wanted Christmas to be the way it always was. I wanted
Christmas to be the way Justin remembered.
Georgia died two
months earlier. Justin and I were alone in New Jersey. Vanessa was in
Ohio. It had to be the way it was before – the tree to be perfect. The
ornaments – the memories – had new meaning that Christmas. The memories
of happiness were raw, but the tree over came them. A tear trickled from
my eye. Good things may pass, but their memories hang on. Last year I
hung a new ornament on our tree. It was one I got for Ginny. It’s a
penguin. Ginny loves penguin. This year, I have one she gave me to hang
– new pages have been added to my album. I hang my personal album for
all to see, sit back and relax. For several weeks, I search my
magical tree until find my special spot. It could be anywhere on the
tree, but I know it’s there – a spot where light shines perfectly on one
or two balls and reflects off a length of tinsel. It’s perfect in every
way.
I lock my eyes on it
and enjoy its beauty. I relive my life. It’s there for all to enjoy. I
invite you to share it with me. Look at the ornaments. Flip the pages.
Share my life. It’s a magical tree
Michael T. Smith |
