In my Mother's home there were treasures galore,
Beloved by their owner, who kept them in store.
Old letters written by writers now dead,
Books cherished in childhood, though now seldom read
Bits of cracked china more precious than gold,
Photos depicting the young now grown old.
"A useless collection of rubbish," you say?
But she hadn't the heart just to throw them away.
One thing nearly all older folk like to do is keep things that have outlived their usefulness. Why? They are mementos of their younger and more active days. They are memories that are very dear to them.
Mom still does not know that, years ago, I watched from the other room as she delicately removed the chain from the tree, one link at a time. After pausing a moment, she lowered the handmade ornament into a small white box, secured the lid with tape, and reverently said, "I can't wait to see you again."
* * *
Now that the hustle and bustle of the holiday season has passed, it is time to pack away the festive decorations for another year. Some people find this to be an onerous task, but I, for one, really enjoy the last look at our Christmas treasures as I put them in their boxes. It seems that each ornament, wreath or candle has its own special memory. As I wrap each of them in tissue, I have a chance to think about how long we've had it, the circumstances of our getting it, and who gave it to us.
It is the New Year, and many families have spent another glorious holiday together. A fresh cover of snow blankets the tracks of yesterday, where the children have made snow angels and rolled down their Grandpa's backyard hill.
All of these things are beautiful memories, memories that I have a chance to enjoy each Christmas season--memories of childhood past. And … Memories of my mother.
I am transported back to my childhood…
Every January 6th, once breakfast is finished Mom begins putting away the Christmas tree, an annual task she prefers to do alone. She removes the ornaments one by one, gazing momentarily at the hand-made decorations crafted by the children in early years. Then, humming carols, she wraps each in tissue paper and gently places it in an old cardboard box, all the while, a dreamy look in her eyes.
Like a child eating cake smothered in icing, Mother saves the top of the yuletide tree for last. Secured atop the tallest branch, reaching heavenward, is a simple precious star, reminding all, that Christmas in her home is illuminated with the light of Christ, represented by the new star. This is the last ornament she packs, placing it at the top of the box, where next year it will be the first light of the Christmas season to fill her home.
But wait! There is one more ornament: a small red ornament; a small red and green chain with links cut from construction paper, then pasted together at the ends. It is long enough to circle the top of the tree. Its crinkled, faded links display years of wear, along with tape, staples and paste.
"Why does she keep it?"
Mom does not know that, years ago, I watched from the other room as she delicately removed the chain from the tree, one link at a time. After pausing a moment, she would lower the handmade ornament into a small white box, secure the lid with tape, and with emotion would say: "I can't wait to see you again."
Why, I wondered. Why does she keep it, and why does it make tears come to her eyes?
She places the white box in the larger box, with room enough for only the star that soon would be nestled next to it. She seals the larger carton and slides it to the side, to be carried to the basement. She sighs. …
At this moment I entered the room and offered to carry the things down stairs.
Seemingly pleased that I offered, Mother replied, "Certainly. The box is ready, but be very careful not to drop it."
I could see that her eyes were trying hard to hold back tears, but a simple smile lit her face.
I carried the carton down to the storage room. Curious about the event I had witnessed, I quickly went to work, feeling sure that Mom would not discover what I was about to do, as she found stairs to be nearly impossible these days. Carefully I removed the tape from the top of the carton, still cautious for fear Mom may discover me invading her secret. I lifted the small white box to the light.
There it was: the answer to my curiosity, the reason for the care, the reserved spot next to the star and, more than anything else, the purpose for Christmas…. Written on the side of the box, in crayon, with five-year-old hands, in letters that did not match, and leaned to one side, was the name, "Brian."
I never knew Brian, but I had heard Mom mention his name, always with a tone of awe and reverence. My older brother never lived to see his sixth Christmas or his ornament on the tree, but Mom has saved the spot for it each year, next to the star. She kept it in repair, much like she had kept our entire family-- with weary hands and the love only a mother knows, she had kept the family chain together.
Maybe this year would be the year I would ask her to tell me about my brother, so that I can pass the story on to the younger generations. My mother died before the next Christmas. I never learned more about Brian.
But now, as an adult, I finally understand what "together" really means. "Together" means FAMILY, UNDERSTANDING. Together means loving the people close to you. "Together" means LOVE.
LOVE is a treasure, like the precious star, tucked away forever in your heart, but forever shining forth, reminding all of the light of Christ.
By Hartson
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