I wonder what they heard...

I love the marvel of birth. I have often watched newborns, facinated with their every move, and in awe of the power they hold to mold the future. Today I listened to the familiar story of the birth of Jesus once again, this time read by a child. As much as I love babies, I have never worshipped an infant.

I am facinated by what the wisemen (kings?) saw in the stars that made them so certain that this child was worthy of worship. They were motivated to make a very long journey to see him, and did not turn away when they found him a child with a simple family of limited means.

Today, I found myself wondering what they expected from him. I'm sure they had ideas and hopes of what path his life might take. Did they expect a powerful warrior? Did they expect an earthly king? Did they know he was God come to live among us? Could they have expected that he would sacrifice himself for us? Were they disappointed in him? They didn't exactly have CNN back then... Did they even know that he was crucified? If so, did they hear that he rose from the dead?

I do know that they never forgot that amazing day when they saw him. He drew them to himself, just as he draws us. And those whose life paths cross his are never the same again.

Blue Angel

Looking at my Christmas tree I am pulled back into a procession of Christmas trees.

The 2006 one is a color coordinated and classy prelit tree that stands 9 feet tall in my 16 ft tall living room.

But when I look at it I also see the real trees of my early childhood. Those were before my parents finally figured out that they were the culprits causing my asthma attacks every Christmas! I so loved the fresh scent that long after my mother banned them, I would sneak off to a tree lot to savor the Christmas smell. We always had an angel at the top of the tree. Not a fancy one, but one my mother made out of plastic soda straws decorated with blue glitter. I thought Blue Angel was the most beautiful thing in the world.

The real trees were replaced by an aluminum "tree" with odd branches that ended in a type of pom-pom. The flood light that aluminated it alternated between red, yellow, blue, and green. My favorite effect was blue. Overall, these were very strange replacements for a living green thing! Blue Angel graced this one as well.

A series of artificial trees followed, full of a mismatched, but much loved collection of old ornaments. I loved the fragile ones, long after the gold paint was tarnished. Each year, getting out the decorations was like unwrapping presents that I had carefully prepared for myself the year before.

Then came early marriage with no money to spare for Christmas ornaments. I set the small tree in a corner, hand painted a set of wooden ornmaments from a kit, and added lots of tinsel to trim the front of the tree. Those ornaments proved to be very practical, surviving years of handling by my children. My mother gave me Blue Angel, and each year I packed a note with her, specifying which child had the honor of placing her on the tree that year.

This year the tree has no Blue Angel. But she sits proudly on top of the grandfather clock, making sure that we remember the faces of past Christmases as we share the joy of of the present. My mother and father are no longer with us. My children are grown and will not open gifts beneath our tree this year. But there is that ancient look of wonder on my grandson's face when he visits my house. I will tell him about Blue Angel, and perhaps she will preside over his children's Christmases after I am gone.