The Christmas Brooch: Parting with prized possessions

“It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

—Acts 20:35

I read the tag attached to the gift box, “Beverly! You were my secret sister? I had no idea!”

I proceeded to tear the wrapping paper from the box, then lifted the lid. What I saw made me gasp. The striking blue brooch I had once seen Beverly wear in church. As she had turned to greet me during the morning service, my eyes went straight to it. “Wow, what a beautiful pin!” I exclaimed, “The blue is absolutely stunning! I love it!”

I imagined it was a vintage piece from Beverly’s antiques store. Now, here it was in a gift box for me! I was overwhelmed. How could she part with what must have been one of her prized possessions?

Maybe there are several answers to that question.

Tell Me a Story: How sharing can make a difference

Tell it to your children, and let your children tell it to their children, and their children to the next generation.

—Joel 1:3

One of my least favorite chores is dusting, so I usually put it off until I absolutely must do it. I was at that point a few days before Thanksgiving. I knew I had to get my house in order before my daughter, Rebekah, and her family arrived. I removed objects from the top of my dresser, including the mother-daughter figurine that Rebekah had given me for Christmas a couple years back. As I wiped the statuette, I read the engraving on the back: tell me a story.

It seemed a message aimed directly at me. Lately I had been thinking about my writing and how I had been putting it off, like the dusting, not because I dislike it (I enjoy it!), but because other things had gotten in the way. I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer. This was a confirmation.

An idea struck. What if I challenged myself to write one story for each day of the Advent season? Could I do it? Could I allow the words to flow from my brain to my fingertips without stopping to “workshop” word choice and placement? I wanted to try. I wanted to honor the Savior with my words without getting hung up on perfectionism.

When Rebekah arrived, I told her my idea.

“Do you think you have enough stories?” she asked.

The Message of Hope, Wrapped Up in a Shawl

But as it is written, Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.

—1 Corinthians 2:9 KJV

“Wake up! It’s Christmas!” my sister, Mary, called to me from my bedroom door.

“It’s Christmas!” my siblings echoed, waiting in the hallway for all to gather.

I quickly arose and joined them. We took off down the stairs, feet flying, hearts pounding. Mary flipped the living room light switch, illuminating the long-awaited scene, gifts piled high on every chair and couch. Eyes wide open, we scanned the room, each of us quickly locating our own pile.

Mom and Dad joined us, and we took turns opening our gifts from them. When it was my turn, I tore off the gift wrap, removed the top from the box, and pulled out a hand-crocheted shawl. My mouth flew open.

“What! You made this, Mom?” I exclaimed, “How did you do that without me knowing?”

Without waiting for a response, I wrapped the shawl around my shoulders, imagining myself wearing the shawl to church and all the teen group dances.

Christmas Shoes: What do you do when your shoes no longer fit?

Wear shoes on your feet which are the Good News of peace.

—Ephesians 6:15 NLV

                    

Carefully, I removed a shiny blue bulb from a paper carton and placed it on a welcome branch. My reflection bounced back at me, and my breath caught in my throat. At age 10, I couldn’t quite put into words the reverence for the Christmas season, but I felt it in my heart—a warmth that radiated from the surrounding family members, all engaged in preparing for a Savior’s birth.

I was the oldest of my parents’ (then) five children, and true to birth order traits, I became an achiever and a perfectionist. To me, Christmas was the most perfect season and everything about Christmas had to be done with perfection. That included decorating the tree, under Mom’s careful supervision. Ornaments had to be perfectly placed, evenly spaced, and no same colors next to one another. The angel had to top the tree, and tinsel had to be draped perfectly over the ends of every extended bough. Once decorating was complete, all could exhale a simultaneous “Aaahhh.”

That’s what we were doing that afternoon on December 18, 1971. All of us—my siblings, my parents, my grandfather, and myself—were sitting around the living room admiring the Christmas tree. A beautiful moment to be frozen in time.

“A pretty tree,” Granddaddy remarked in a whisper, not for effect but because his vocal chords had been affected by a stroke.

Yes, it’s perfect, I thought. Then I glanced down at my shoes and noted that not all was perfect. My shoes were worn out, my toes scrunched inside. I couldn’t wear these on Christmas. I had to have new shoes, and I had to convince my parents to take me shopping.