It's a sad looking little ornament, as are its brothers and sisters, handsewn and stitched when I was seventeen. When I was fourteen my older brother, just back from Viet Nam, died in a car accident on his way back to base. He was twenty-two, and childhood came to a screeching halt. He died in January, but for the next few years there was no Christmas tree, no carol singing. My mother gave away all our ornaments. The only thing I asked for that first Christmas was my own rocking chair so I could have a place to think and to comfort myself.
Then my niece came to live with us. And when she was two or so, my parents relented and we had a tree, but we had nothing to put on it, so I (with neither talent nor experience at this sort of thing) made my own. I found some festive material and cut it into uneven circles and lopsided bells. I stitched a ribbon here and a gold cord there and those were our decorations that year, and for me, every year since. Every time I hung one of these on the tree I would think "Defiant Joy". I refused to let the world end for me. I refused to not find joy in Christmas.
This year I didn't want to decorate the tree. I'm worn out by the last nine months, and I'm feeling old. My children won't be home for the first time ever. It hurts, but it's the only sensible thing to do as COVID continues to ravage the country. We shipped presents to the west coast for our older son. We'll drop presents off at our younger son's apartment, along with a Christmas dinner, on the day. Four stockings hang on the mantel and I know only two of them are going to be filled. OK. It's a fact. Time to deal with it.
This weekend the garland went on the staircase, the nutcrackers took their positions by the fireplace, and I risked life and limb putting up the world's most humble light display, a string or two over our front door, entwined with fake greens and silver ribbons. The neighbors get no competition from me when it comes to Christmas splendor. But as I decorated the tree (and the only reason I did was that my San Francisco son was decorating his apartment so I wanted to send him some ornaments from home), I found myself re-experiencing that old feeling of fanning the embers of happiness in my soul. The glow was faint, but it was still there. I am still confused and grateful that the Son of God came down to Earth and became one of us. What an amazing thing to do. So I'll celebrate that. That is surely worth celebrating.
When I hung the ornaments I came across my little pile of hand made gingham and dotted swiss, stuffed with cotton balls over fifty years ago. I decided I WILL celebrate Christmas. I WILL find joy in the great Gift who came to us. Over the years we have collected many other ornaments, some made by the boys when they were little, some handblown glass and elaborate. Each holds a memory. And as I hung my rag-tag tokens of hope I said aloud, "Defiant Joy," a sort of blessing on each and every one of them.
Then my niece came to live with us. And when she was two or so, my parents relented and we had a tree, but we had nothing to put on it, so I (with neither talent nor experience at this sort of thing) made my own. I found some festive material and cut it into uneven circles and lopsided bells. I stitched a ribbon here and a gold cord there and those were our decorations that year, and for me, every year since. Every time I hung one of these on the tree I would think "Defiant Joy". I refused to let the world end for me. I refused to not find joy in Christmas.
This year I didn't want to decorate the tree. I'm worn out by the last nine months, and I'm feeling old. My children won't be home for the first time ever. It hurts, but it's the only sensible thing to do as COVID continues to ravage the country. We shipped presents to the west coast for our older son. We'll drop presents off at our younger son's apartment, along with a Christmas dinner, on the day. Four stockings hang on the mantel and I know only two of them are going to be filled. OK. It's a fact. Time to deal with it.
This weekend the garland went on the staircase, the nutcrackers took their positions by the fireplace, and I risked life and limb putting up the world's most humble light display, a string or two over our front door, entwined with fake greens and silver ribbons. The neighbors get no competition from me when it comes to Christmas splendor. But as I decorated the tree (and the only reason I did was that my San Francisco son was decorating his apartment so I wanted to send him some ornaments from home), I found myself re-experiencing that old feeling of fanning the embers of happiness in my soul. The glow was faint, but it was still there. I am still confused and grateful that the Son of God came down to Earth and became one of us. What an amazing thing to do. So I'll celebrate that. That is surely worth celebrating.
When I hung the ornaments I came across my little pile of hand made gingham and dotted swiss, stuffed with cotton balls over fifty years ago. I decided I WILL celebrate Christmas. I WILL find joy in the great Gift who came to us. Over the years we have collected many other ornaments, some made by the boys when they were little, some handblown glass and elaborate. Each holds a memory. And as I hung my rag-tag tokens of hope I said aloud, "Defiant Joy," a sort of blessing on each and every one of them.
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