This afternoon, when I leaned down to pick up our Christmas ornament box from beneath the basement stairs, I got a sick feeling in my stomach.
Mildew.
As I carried the box up the stairs, I thought about all the Thanksgiving weekends I have brought this box out of its basement hibernation. I knew that the ornaments inside were carefully wrapped in tissue paper, all snug and secure...But, I didn't know if the nasty mildew had made its way through the box and onto our treasured ornaments.
Now, we don't have one of those stylish store window trees. You know, the kind with glittery branches exploding out the top, or with the latest red and green mesh ribbon poofing and twisting around the branches. I think those kind of trees are breath-taking, and magical.
But, our tree has a different kind of magic. Our tree is filled with childhood ornaments. Mine, my husband's, and now our 2 daughters'. Our ornaments may not be as sparkly anymore, and they certainly don't follow any special color scheme, but, every one of them has a memory. And many of them have different memories for each member of our family.
So, when I set down the box, and opened it up, my heart dropped a little.
Ugh. The mildew made its way into our box of ornaments. This summer, when our air conditioner broke while we were away at summer camp, I never even thought about the ornament box. I knew some things in the basement had mildewed--I had wiped mildew off suitcases and plastic hand-me-down bins. I'd washed sleeping bags, and many of the hand-me-down clothes. But, the Christmas boxes tucked neatly under the stairs never occurred to me.
I was afraid to pick up the mildew-stained tissue paper. I almost didn't want to know which ornaments were inside. How could they not be special ones? They're all special. And meaningful.
But, what I found inside was even worse than I had imagined. It took me a minute to realize that tears were rolling down my cheeks.
My babies. My dearest ornaments, that I always hang together on the right side of my tree. The sweet little wreaths that our church nursery Sunday School teachers fill with that year's chubby-cheeked babies--who are usually not smiling, and whose red or green hairbows are usually askew. But, oh, I treasured those pictures. Those are my babies, my Christmas babies, whose chubby cheeks I smile at every year on the tree.
And the horrible mildew ruined them.
Even in their horrible destruction, I remember every little detail of these pictures. I remember the contour of those chubby cheeks, the feathery, fuzzy blond hair, the grey blue eyes looking at the camera in a blank stare, mouth open. Those stubby little ponytails we waited so long to be able to pull up.
I know I don't need these pictures to remember my babies. My babies are right in front of me, making new and wonderful memories every single day. I know my tree has years of pictures left to fill, years of glittery masterpieces to hang on the branches. I know I can dig out other Christmas baby pictures, and replace these ruined ones.
And, you know what? Nobody got hurt, our daughters are healthy, and we are tucked in our warm house tonight, as a family. All of that is what matters.
Pictures are just memories on pieces of paper. The memories are forever in my heart.
But, tonight...as I finish decorating our tree, hanging each familiar ornament in its regular spot, I have to be honest. The right side of my tree is a little bare, and so is my heart.
I miss my little Christmas babies.
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