When I was a small girl my mother made me an angel to sit atop our Christmas tree. My mother had talents a plenty, but crafting was not one of them. She didn't sew and she didn't paint. She didn't make things often. I don't think she was born with the crafting gene. But that long ago Christmas she made an angel for me.
My angel has been at the tip top of every Christmas tree in my family ever since. She is, sadly, really looking her age these days. Her red bow is faded. She is rather wobbly in the wings. Her heavy foil dress is dented and the three black sequins that used to indicate buttons down the front have been missing for decades now, although a bit of glue showing where one was once, is there still. But she still has that big smile and the kind eyes and she sits at the tippy-top of the tree, looking down, blessing us all with her steadfastness and and resolve and her very wonky spirit.
Of all my Christmas ornaments and decorations, this five inch bit of foil and a wooden bead, a bit of tattered ribbon and the love of a mother for a child, is my most treasured belonging. When I hold my angel in my hand it's like I have my mother back again. I can feel her love for me. I can feel the real meaning of Christmas. My angel embodies Christmas for me and my family. She is always there. She guards us all. She is the keeper of the joy.
Thanks, Mom. I miss you. I love you.