Which ornament would be next? I surveyed my options including
exquisite blown glass balls and shimmering glass icicles, and picked the antique
of the bunch, a delicate pink rose from my mother-in-law’s prized
Christmas ornament collection. It
probably dated to the mid-40s. I walked
over to our half-decorated tree, cradling the rose in my hand. Where to display it? There, up high in the center. It should
have a prominent spot.
I selected a branch that seemed
just right, pinched the built-in clip on the back of the ornament, and recoiled
in disbelief as it dropped from my hand and shattered on the floor. It happened
so fast, and I had no idea how.
Could I blame arthritis?
Had I been careless?
The crown of the flower,
still intact in its moment of demise, stared up at me like a single wistful eye. Sharp pink and silver shards lay sprayed in
every direction for several feet.
This ornament had been a favorite of its original owner, and later a favorite of mine by
inheritance. I wondered if I
should save what remained - a reminder of my special relationship with this
woman who had moved me deeply on her deathbed with words
of faith and trust in God: “If this is dying, it’s not so bad.” I tossed it in the trash. The undiscerning
vacuum sweeper hummed, picking up the splinters. It was only a Christmas ornament, I reasoned.
Several hours later I
retrieved the broken flower head from the trashcan and gently sheltered it in the
cup of my hand, savoring its dainty intricacy. It was exquisite, despite the breakage. A beautiful treasure, a cherished relic.
I decided to keep it, at
least for a while. This evening it
stands on edge, displayed on my kitchen windowsill with a sequined poinsettia and statuesque angels named
Hope and Healing – fitting companions.
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