Slowly and wistfully I stand gracing my Christmas tree with a lifetime of memories. I swear this tree is the keeper of my heart. And this is my yearly pilgrimage. With each keepsake pulled from its nestled resting place, I once again allow my thoughts to awaken with it. A treasure crafted by chubby hands – hands no longer chubby but lean and strong, bearing the weight of adulthood. Hands no longer reaching up for mine but now reaching down for another set of chubby hands. Another treasure crafted by hands joined in fellowship and ministry – fellow warriors in the battle for the lives of youth. Fellow sojourners navigating our own journeys. And yet another treasure thoughtfully crafted by the hand of a student, reminding me that in every case, they taught me as much as I may have taught them. Treasures to celebrate a birth. Treasures to honor the dead. Treasures that acknowledge whimsy and humor. Treasures that tell a story.

Today I stand gracing my tree in quiet solitude. My husband Jan   put the tree up a few nights ago and draped it beautifully with lights, but this part is mine. In my reverie, I call back the days of eggnog and laughter and children helping and music playing and maybe the windows open, but today I am alone with my musings and my memories. Each ornament unwraps a new one. Each one greets me with a sound or a scent or a smile. Each one hangs as a silent tribute to ages now past. And then I feel it build. Quietly. Subtly. Deeply. That gentle melancholy that enters first as golden memory then moves quickly to tarnish and sadden. I recognize this enticing warmth all too well and before giving in completely, I utter a prayer to shake off this fog. To let this tree and these treasures be what they are – lovingly kept reminders of graces and redemption and love and hope and life.

Without wasting a second, my gracious Father hears and answers my plea – in that way that He does so well. I am just at the point when I put some especially cherished ornaments on the tree. They are three ceramic Native American angels given to me years ago by my oldest daughter. They are cherished because she gave them to me simply because she knew I would love them. No one has ever gotten to place them on the tree but me. They always go on at a certain point when I know I can put them in the perfect spots. They are handled with tender care as I’m sure they could not be replaced. It’s silly, I guess, but these little angels are a tribute to love. And so when one of them slips out of my hand and hits the tile, Melancholy is quick to whisper,

“Well, there’s the end of that. Just like everything else, it all ends up in pieces.”

But even quicker is my Heavenly Father’s voice,

“Pick her up, Pam. She is not destroyed, only broken a little by life.”

Bending down to pick her up, I see that it is true. I have no idea how she survived the fall from the tree onto the unforgiving tile, but here she lies, her broken wings offering a message I need to hear, her tribute now deepened. Next year when I carefully unwrap her, she will remind me of something different. And so will my faithful Father.

What a few know about me, but most do not, is that my Christmas tree holds more for me than ornaments and treasures and memories. Yes it is that, but there is more that those branches have been asked to bear. More that it has been begged to offer. It is a fact that I will arrange and re-arrange those ornaments more than a few times until I feel they are just right. Balanced. Complimentary. In harmony. Happy. Not one of them is expensive, but they are valuable to me. And I want my tree to be just right. Nothing broken or hurt or out of place. Exactly what I longed for as a child growing up in a very broken family. Exactly what I longed for and tried hard to create for my children as they were growing up. Exactly what I will still try to create now if I do not look to God to remind me that perfect is not yet and broken happens and grace is real and He is the Healer and I am not. And it is okay.

And so as I sit in my rocking chair and lovingly admire my Christmas tree, I do so with more satisfaction than I ever have. In fact, I don’t think I’m going to get up and re-arrange anything. It looks pretty good. And if my eye happens to spy a gap or not enough light in one spot or too much of whatever, I’m leaving it. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Those memories are mine, and the broken parts are my story. Oh, and the broken angel? She’s perfect……