We put up mom and dad’s tree. Do I not say “mom’s” anymore? This is so mom’s home. Every inch of it. We all feel it. Without her here, it’s not the same. We decorate the tree. The kids come to help. Funny how here, they willingly participate, while at home it’s a battle. We finish with the angel; a little crooked. We need a ladder; but it’s time to quit for the night. Everyone leaves and I put the kids to bed. I stand in front of the tree. The lights twinkling,
illuminating the darkness.
I remember years gone by. When I was young, our tree was always so beautiful. It was a delight for the senses. Gold garland and tinsel shimmered, reflecting the colored lights. The smell of pine permeated the air even before you reached the living room. And there was a distinctive swish as you walked in, almost as if the room was alive. (There was also static, which you learned at a young age to never touch that beautiful looking tree) I would sit in front of those trees year after year, with the colored lights blinking; praying and dreaming about what my future would hold. I would marvel at the wonder of a Savior, becoming light so that I might live.
It’s time for us to head back home. Back to my home. To what is familiar. But all that is familiar has changed. Everywhere I go; it’s different. I am different. I am a mama whose life feels just a margin off track. I am a mama desperately trying with all of my being to cling to the Ancient Promises; the promise of hope. I am a mama who woke in the dark to flashing lights and a life torn from me. The darkness of that night has not left me yet. I still close my eyes and feel the searing pain and disbelief as the officer shared there had been an accident; then the realization that the lack of light was because one so young had taken his last ride. Yet even in the darkness, the ray of one small light is enough to illuminate a well worn path. Isn’t the familiar, the well worn path to the cross each day? The beat of each step surrendered to him?