Ornaments

It's really late and I am sitting in a quiet living room, staring at our Christmas tree. Sitting in here at night, with only the lights from the tree on, is so peaceful and pretty.

I love all of our ornaments, and if you lined them up in order, you can almost see a snippet of our family history with each piece.

Right before I got married, many years ago, my sister and I headed out for a before-dawn-after-Christmas sale, where I purchased a million and one ornaments for a whopping 75% off, knowing I would use them on our very first "married couple" tree. We had such a fun time fighting off crazy early morning shoppers, but mostly just being together. And the next Christmas, I hung every one of those little things on our first tree. We still use them today.

And then, of course, as the years have gone on, our family has collected various pieces that we proudly display every Christmas. Many of the latest ones, of course, are handcrafted by the shortest people that live in our house - and they are quite special.

I have the most precious memories of putting up our tree as a kid, and hearing my mom tell about the ornaments we hung.

And today, just as back then, every ornament has a story.

Tonight, my eyes are drawn to this little one.

Not long before my grandfather passed away, he gave me this as a gift. I was told that he made them for each of us grandchildren. My Poppy was an extremely special man, so this last gift from him is very important to me. I'll cherish it always. On the back is stitched in tiny letters, "To Terri, From Poppy"

If someone else came into our home, they might comment on our tree or the decorations that fill the room. And if asked, I would tell about some of our favorite pieces. But it would never mean the same thing to them as it does to me and our family.

Our tree, with its twinkling lights, tells a story. It tells our story, with bits and pieces of days past and days present.

And for some reason, tonight, I am reminded that people are a lot like those ornaments.

Just like the pieces hanging on our tree, behind every person, highly ornamented or plain and simple, there is a story. A story waiting to be told. A story worth hearing, if we will take time to listen.