Treasured Ornaments
When December arrives, I can’t wait for the tree, the seasonal symbol that transforms my house. And me. Despite the hassle and the mess and the environmental qualms, I still buy a fresh tree. I relish the smell, and I don’t mind much the watering rituals and the spider webs that inevitably decorate the branches, or even the dry needles strewn throughout the house by the time the tree becomes garden mulch on Epiphany.
To me, the tree ornaments are precious as gold, frankincense and myrrh. Each year, as I unpack them, I walk arm-in-arm down memory lane with the Ghost of Christmas Past. In the frenetic pace of Yuletide activity, trimming the tree slows me down. Making my way through the boxes, the tissue paper, the bubble wrap, the tangle of wire hooks, unwrapping each ornament and each memory, placing them just so on the tree gives me some hang time. The frenetic flurry of Yuletide activity slows down for awhile as I remember each ornament and it’s origin.
I especially cherish the wire spokes of chipped and clouded glass beads handed down from my Great Grandmother Barrett’s collection. And the minty green, elongated glass teardrops I selected from the Christmas ornaments of my brother after he died. And the snowflakes, delicate and starched — my mother’s creations crocheted near the end of her life.
I treasure the silk embroidered circles stitched by my younger sister and her gift of a Ukrainian egg ornament. I savor my older sisters’ gifts of
Celtic crosses, crystal stars, pewter bells, painted pasta angels and beaded red chile peppers. And my aunt’s gift of a Precious Moments angel holding a flashlight and encasing a computer chip that plays “O Holy Night.”
The Knottings of Family
And the gifts from neighbors, including a set of six glow-in-the-dark balls, circa 1950, acquired from my 85-year-old neighbor across the street.
Her late husband had been president of a bank, and when he made a business loan to a young, European immigrant man who wanted to open a gift shop, the man returned to present his banker with the luminous Christmas ornaments, all the rage that year.
I’m fond of the painted tin elephant from a former boss. And the wooden skiers and glass snowflakes and molded European Santa from friends. And the brass instruments from former students, and the terra cotta Nativity from a colleague.
I delight in ornaments collected on my travels, particularly a tiny olive wood Nativity scene I bought in Nazareth. And the ornaments I made: wooden figures I painted and assembled as a freshman in high school, dough angels intricately painted. And the wooden clothes pin toy soldiers I made with fifth graders when I was a Girl Scouts troop leader.
Okay, I cherish them all, dozens of ornaments each bearing sentimental value. Every ornament reflects community, the knottings of family, of friends, of neighborhood, of workplace and even the global village. Christmas ornaments bring people and places to mind, each lovely, different, valuable, each adding their own sparkle and shine, their own weight, their own history and mystery and grace.
The Tree at Night
My tree, lovely by daylight, undergoes metamorphoses at night in the sheen of a thousand white lights twinkling and four thousand silver strands of tinsel icicles, carefully hung, shimmering. I top my tree with a graceful angel, her lacy skirts stitched with iridescent sequins and seed pears, holding two candles that illumine her porcelain face. Every time I plug in the lights, I want to break into song: “Oh, Christmas tree! Oh, Christmas tree!” I can’t find a better word than joy — that often elusive fruit of the Holy Spirit.
It’s then that my tree comforts me most — and others, too, I hope. Come to think of it, the phrase “my tree” seems inappropriate, given the contributions from so many others and the knowing that I trim this tree for myself, but also for the rest of the world zooming by on 6th Avenue. In these short days — night so long, so dark — I know this tree beams light to passersby. Letting the light of Christmas — lumen gentium, lumen Christi — shine out my French doors and windows into the night is my warming witness to the “wonderful, Counselor, Lord of Light and love.”
Copyright 2001 Catholic Exchange
