Our Christmas tree has several ornaments depicting the nativity scene (which probably actually happened in something closer to a cave or stone structure than a wooden stable, but I digress). It also has several trains, which hubby has collected. And many other miscellaneous ornaments depicting all manner of things, from cooking (of course) to carousel horses to the ornaments that have been collected for our children. Growing up we were each given an ornament every Christmas, and my mother has continued this for our kids.
Our tree does not have, however, any angels. Except one.
She's not much to look at, I know. She's definitely seen better days. She's made of card stock and felt and her hair just won't go down anymore. Her halo is crooked and bent and her skirt is all wonky. She wouldn't even be on our tree at all, except for two little numbers written on the paper lining on her underside. 72. As in 1972. The year I was born. She was my very first Christmas ornament, and has been on the tree every single year since. She has seen 38 Christmases, and this will be her 39th. Even in the past few years when all we've had was a tiny table top tree, she's been there. I contemplated not putting her up this year. I mean, she's tattered and scruffy looking and not at all like the shiny Hallmark ornaments that light up and spin and play music. But there's something about her, about her history, that left me unable to leave her in the box. She may not be the prettiest thing on the tree, but she's one of the most sentimental ornaments I have. Who knows, maybe some day one of our kids will put her on their tree for their children? In the meantime, I'll continue to put her on ours, not hidden at the back or tucked down at the bottom, but out front where she can be seen.
And besides, I think she looks pretty good once the tree is all lit up.
