Believe The Father carried His Son to heaven

As I select and hang Christmas tree ornaments this yuletide, perennial memories flash me back to childhood.

For one, in evenings after dinner, my three sisters and I gathered around our Christmas tree with our parents. Dad, famous for throwing tinsel on our Douglas Fir rather than neatly hanging the silvery strands on branches, takes command of the project.

In her wisdom, Mom capitulates.

Then, I didn’t connect Dad’s messy method to his timed camera secured on his tripod. Decades later when viewing my father’s precious home movies, I understand the time pressure Dad’s camera imposed on our family activities.

I unwrap several of my mother’s delicate bulbs, survivors of Dad’s manic decorating method, five daughters, and Mom’s several moves out of state after my parents’ divorce.

And of course, my children’s handmade ornaments zoom me back to a certain place and time in our family history.

For instance, Becky’s styrofoam Christmas bell my firstborn made in Sunday school, 1972, which I handle with utmost care.

Will her surviving sisters cherish this keepsake when they inherit my earthly belongings?

And the walnut shell glued together and once covered with gold glitter. I hang the red yarn fixed within the shell on the tip of a branch.

The little walnut hangs front and center on the tree, close to a beautiful ornament my California daughter bought during a Christmastime European tour.

Oh, the stories my Christmas tree tells!

There was that one December night my sisters and I decorated our Christmas tree in the last house where we lived on Wagner Street in Warren.

As all the small houses built on our block, a large picture window faced the front yard and street. Mom opened the window’s curtains so we could decorate that side of our tree.

After stringing lights and throwing tinsel, Dad looked out the window, pointed up to the sky and said, “Look! Up there! Santa and his reindeer!”

Now, although a man who loved to tell jokes and play pranks (the baby of eight children is prone to do such things) I’d never known my father to lie.

Furthermore, he’d never mentioned Santa Claus before. Although I wanted to believe Santa was real, I knew he wasn’t.

Yet, my father’s playful spirit spoke, which provoked my mother’s approving smile, a rare moment I observed in our household.

“See?” Dad persisted, “See the lights of Santa’s sleigh above the Rivard’s house?”

Although I wanted to believe Dad with all my heart, I could not.

For I knew he didn’t believe in Santa either. He knew Christmas is about the birth of Jesus the Christ, the Son of God, born in a manger, to die and save us from our sins.

My father believed without seeing.

My mother believed without seeing.

And I, their second born of five daughters, without seeing, believe The Father carried His Son up into Heaven.

Our Light in darkness.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com