Little hands hung the ornaments on the branches. Small crocheted red and green Christmas stockings, painted wooden blocks, a wood stenciled heart with folk art scrolls, a craft dough teddy bear red ribbon around its neck, fabric frames holding her 2 year old photo, a yellow wooden airplane, red silk skirted angel at the top; each ornament a symbol, a tribute to love, family, childhood, and faith. The ornaments were chosen for her toddler hands and later her preschool hands. Nothing to break. Everything to be a memory. Chosen across childhood, across travels, picked up here and there. Sometimes during small town, main street shopping with her grandma in the snowy north woods. Sometimes visiting with her God-mother at the base of Sandia Mountains. Sometimes just she and I, perusing the shops in old downtown. How those times are tenderly played across the interior of my memories.
There was a first Christmas when I did not have her with me. And then there were many. Lovingly and hopefully wrapped and packed deep in storage boxes, the ornaments held their memories and their tributes, unseen for a long length of time. A length of time when only faith could be held on to. A length of time when prayer was constant. A length of time when only faith could determine how this story would unfold.
Those ornaments were unwrapped some years back and hung on a small 4 foot tree in her first apartment. I hand stitched a tree skirt to gather around its base and when the lights lit up, we both thought it was a splendid little tree. Every year since I gaze at her tree with a wellspring of joy for the Lord who performs miracles in His time.
This year the toddler gran-twins were photographed as their little hands hung those ornaments on lit up branches. Tow-headed, barefoot babes hanging up memories, tributes to their mama’s childhood, symbols of their grandma’s love and faith. Nothing to break. Everything a memory.
Linking to the Tuesdays Unwrapped community of women writers in addition to these long time favorites:
Linking to the Tuesdays Unwrapped community of women writers in addition to these long time favorites:
Yes - the memories passed on from mother, to daughter, to grandchildren. I love this, and love seeing the same in my family. (And thanks for your visit at Pursuing Heart - glad I came to your blog to read this.)
ReplyDeleteWonderfully written and very evocative. Traditions are a wonderful thing.
ReplyDeletethey are wonderful Betty. Like our Lord, we pass wisdom and values on through symbol and story. Sometimes traditions are created in the process.
DeleteMiracles in His time, I'm holding onto that today. And this: 'A length of time when only faith could determine how this story would unfold. '
ReplyDeleteHold on to faith and prayer with every fiber of your being. Whatever your circumstances, His work proceeds beyond our knowing. May you see the fruits of that in your own story one day.
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