When I was younger I made a metal embossed picture of a flower bouquet and gave it to my mother as a present. She kept it for years and taped it up every Christmas in a very prominent spot. Now it was nicely done, but as I grew older, I really didn’t want to see that picture put up every year. Freehand drawing is not my strong suit and the year she hung it upside down was really the last straw. (It was a flower bouquet for goodness sake! Couldn’t she see the stems were pointing up?) But she could not be budged. It was taped above the fireplace each year much to my dismay. I never could understand it.
I just finished my decorating this year and came to a startling conclusion. Even though my kids are grown I am still using some of their early artwork in my festive efforts each year. Is this a terrible genetic defect? Is it a long standing family curse that can’t be escaped? Or is there something more common going on here? I had to stop for a moment and reflect. There are certainly enough beautiful decorations flooding the market so why do I sprinkle these small holiday offerings from my kids throughout the rooms? And it came to me -- they aren’t just objects made for me long ago. They are mini time machines. The letters may be crooked and the sequins may be falling off with age. Edges show chipping and the glue is cracking. But I only have to close my eyes to be transported back to a table full of smiling faces. I hear the pitter patter of Pajama feet on Christmas morning. I smell hot chocolate and rolled Christmas cookies. They hold massive power.
So now I begin to understand. I am no longer dismayed. I am in the club. The admission ticket is time. It makes me smile discovering this secret. And I can imagine houses all over where mothers and grandmothers are sprinkling children’s art and presents among the decorations. Because they know the power of remembering.
I just finished my decorating this year and came to a startling conclusion. Even though my kids are grown I am still using some of their early artwork in my festive efforts each year. Is this a terrible genetic defect? Is it a long standing family curse that can’t be escaped? Or is there something more common going on here? I had to stop for a moment and reflect. There are certainly enough beautiful decorations flooding the market so why do I sprinkle these small holiday offerings from my kids throughout the rooms? And it came to me -- they aren’t just objects made for me long ago. They are mini time machines. The letters may be crooked and the sequins may be falling off with age. Edges show chipping and the glue is cracking. But I only have to close my eyes to be transported back to a table full of smiling faces. I hear the pitter patter of Pajama feet on Christmas morning. I smell hot chocolate and rolled Christmas cookies. They hold massive power.
So now I begin to understand. I am no longer dismayed. I am in the club. The admission ticket is time. It makes me smile discovering this secret. And I can imagine houses all over where mothers and grandmothers are sprinkling children’s art and presents among the decorations. Because they know the power of remembering.
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