Memory Tree

I pull the boxes of ornaments from the closet and prepare myself for a trip into
the past. No photo album can bring back as many memories as my box of ornaments.
Like a picture, each ornament contains a memory.

There's the box of wooden ones, handmade and painted with care. Within the assortment is a small man on skis, a mouse on a swing, even Santa in his sleigh. I
remember when my Georgia I bought them. It was our first Christmas as a married
couple. We hung them on the tree and dreamed how our future children would love them.

I pick up a ceramic Santa. My aunt gave it to me when I was four. He holds a
tiny box in his hands. There's a tear in it's wrapper, a tear caused by a boy who couldn't
contain his curiosity.

A tiny brass bell is next. My brothers and I had fun with this bell. We took
turns hiding it in the tree. The others had to find it. We played "Find the Bell," until mom
yelled at us for shaking the tree to make the bell ring and reveal its hiding spot.

Mom knew how much the bell meant to me. The year I had my own family, she
gave me the bell. I played the same game with my own children.

I pick up a pretty red ball. My daughter touched it when she was two. We'd put
Venessa down for her nap and decorated while she slept. We wanted to surprise her.

We finished I sat back with a glass of eggnog and waited for her to wake.

I see her face again. She ran from her room, fully charged and ready to take on
the world. She was five feet from the tree before she looked up and stopped. Her eyes
opened wide. Her jaw dropped open, as she emitted a small cry of delight. She walked
forward, raised her hand, and touched a red ball - the ball now held in my hand.



She turned to me. Her eyes reflected the colored lights. "Daddy, what is
it?"

"It's Christmas, Sweetie." My voice quivered with emotion, "It's Christ's
birthday. We're going to celebrate it."

Her sparkling eyes, hanging jaw, and soft skin made me hold my arms out. She
ran into them and gave me a hug that would have melted even Scrooge's hard heart.

I pick up a cracked green ball, a veteran of the first time I allowed my kids to
decorate the tree. They hung all the balls on one branch. When they turned for another, I
quickly moved the one before it to a better spot. I laughed when they told Grandma they
decorated all by themselves.

Near the bottom of the box, I find a brass plaque. It brings back a special
memory. It has my son's name and birth date on it. Justin was supposed to be a New
Year's Eve baby, but he decided he wasn't going to miss Christmas.

Justin was three weeks old, when we took him to the Christmas Eve service at
our church. That night, our minister explained to us the real meaning of Christmas. As
she spoke, she wandered down the aisle and stopped beside us. She reached down and
asked, "May I?" I nodded and handed him to her. She lifted him into her arms.

She was quiet as she walked back to face the congregation. Turning, she held
my son high and said, "This is the real meaning of Christmas: The birth of a new life!"

She cradled my son as she spoke. A single tear trickled down my cheek. She
walked around the sanctuary, displaying my son to those gathered for the Christmas
service. The room seemed empty of everyone but her and my family. Overtaken with
emotion, I reached out, hugged Georgia and Vanessa to my side, and thought, "This
will be a Christmas to remember."



In 2003 I pulled the ornaments out again. Justin and I were not going to be
home for Christmas that year. We were going to spend Christmas with friends in Ohio,
but I wanted Christmas to be the way it always was. I wanted Christmas to be the way
Justin remembered.

Georgia had died two months earlier. Justin and I were alone in New Jersey.
Vanessa was in Ohio. It had to be the way it was before - the tree perfect. The
ornaments - the memories - had new meaning that Christmas. The memories of
happiness were raw, but the tree over came them. A tear trickled from my eye. Good
things may pass, but their memories hang on.

A year later, I hung a new ornament on our tree. It was one I got for Ginny, my new wife. It's a penguin. Ginny loves penguin. This year, I have one she gave me to hang. It's an
Ohio State Football ornament - new pages added to my album.

I hang my personal album for all to see, sit back and relax. For several weeks,
I search my magical tree until I find my special spot. It could be anywhere on the tree,
but I know it's there - a spot where light shines perfectly on one or two balls and reflects
off a length of tinsel. It's perfect in every way.

I lock my eyes on it and enjoy its beauty. I relive my life. It's there for all
to enjoy. I invite you to share it with me. Look at the ornaments. Flip the pages. Share
my life. It's my magical tree

Michael T. Smith

Note: This year we are living with Ginny's daughter's family. They don't have room for my
big tree. My ornaments will stay packed away for another year. Next year they will be even
more special.

Love and the Joy of Hurting

I know that many of you will visit the graves of your loved ones this weekend. For some of you, that loss of a loved one is fresh and for still others, that loss is a scar of memory upon your heart. Whichever situation is true for you, the truth is that pain=love. To further illustrate the point I'm attempting (not so eloquently) to make, please read on:

"Love and the joy of hurting"

By Bob Perks

"Do you like what you do?" she asked me.

"I write about happy things," I said.

"Wait a minute. I've read your work. You made me cry sometimes," she said.

"That makes me happy," I replied.

"Well, that's sick," she said smiling.

"I don't make people cry by hurting them. They often cry from the hurt they have already.

When I first started writing, people would reply telling me that they cried. I wrote back every

time to apologize until I one day realized what a privilege it was."

She still looked at me oddly.

"You see, something I was inspired to write touched someone in such a way as to draw from

them an emotion. They, the reader, actually permitted me, trusted me to enter into their very

being that day and release the pain or joy associated with my story."

"So, I let you in?"

"No, God did. He used that moment to connect us. There was something you needed to feel and

something He wanted me to say."

"Then why do we hurt so much?"

"Love."

How much we hurt is often in relationship to how much we love. The same can be said about

happiness. How much happiness there is in our lives depends on how much love we have not

only for those around us, but for life itself.

Like the death of a loved one.

Such loss is a pain we all endure many times in our lives. Why? Because we love.

But the great thing about love is, it never ceases, even after the final goodbye.

Love continues. It does not cease to exist because someone has died. I believe it is not

the memory of someone gone, but the love of someone that sustains us. Love is more than

remembering.

Love is first a decision of the mind and then a commitment of the heart.

A few years ago, someone wrote to me asking "When will I stop hurting?"

At that time there seemed to be a number of people who were struggling with loss.

I have recently become aware that some of my "friends I've never met," are hurting.

Permit me to share that story with you again:

When will I stop hurting?

By Bob Perks

"I lost a loved one nearly a year ago. When will I stop hurting?"

The question was simple but difficult to answer. She was challenging me.

I wanted to help her, but I knew that only she could answer that question.

Whenever someone writes to tell me about a death, I always talk about

the difficult months ahead. I refer to it as a "Year of Firsts." The first holiday,

birthday, anniversary, summer picnic or other personal event without that loved one.

Then there are those little things you never really paid attention to before, but now

find a gaping hole right in the middle of your day. Like the time they woke up each

morning, how they had their coffee, the sound the door made around dinner time

when they arrived home and the way they said "hello."

But there was something about this message today that made me stop and really

think about what I needed to say. Oddly, I decided that the pain she was feeling

was a good thing, but I wasn't sure she wanted to know that.

Here is exactly what I wrote to her:

When will you stop hurting? That is a measure of the love you shared and how does one measure love?

By remembering them long after they are gone. "Memories" are

the shadows of a life well lived that remain long after the light of their being has gone out.

May you never forget. "Pain" is the echo of remembering those special moments when all the world belonged to the both of you.

The day will come when the pain of remembering turns into understanding

the privilege of ever having them in your life at all.

Remembering will be a joy. Although the pain is great at times, you are reminded still, how very much you loved and were loved.

May the rest of your life be a reflection of that love and when your time comes, may your passing cast long shadows for all who loved you, too.

Bob Perks

My final thought...

When I die...

Bury me not in a cold dark grave. Bury me deep within your heart. I will live forever there.

Bob Perks

P.O. Box 1702

Shavertown, Pa. 18708

Contact Bob 2believe@comcast.net

I encourage you to share my stories but
I do ask that you keep my name and contact
information with my work.

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"I Wish You enough!"
© 2001 Bob Perks

I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright.
I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more.
I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive.
I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear
much bigger.
I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.
I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.
I wish you enough "Hello's" to get you through the final "Goodbye."