Little Bell

Little Bell

Hidden in the back of the tree, deep in the branches, Little Bell hung out of sight.
Her brass surface tarnished and scratched after four generations of Christmas. The
pretty glass ornaments hung on the outer branches for all to see, but Little Bell was out of
sight.

Little Bell looked through the branches. She saw the other ornaments and was
sad. She saw the ceramic Santa, with the package in his hands. The package was torn by a
little boy, who thought there was a present inside. Santa's head had chips from years of
being hung and put away. The Santa ornament was damaged, but still placed near the
front of the tree for all to see. Little Bell was way in the back - hidden. All the ornaments Bell hung with through the years, were at the front of the tree, but Bell was alone.

Little Bell remembered when she hung at the front of the tree. Christmas came.
Boxes were carried to the living room and opened. The tree was placed in the center the
large room. Hands reached into the boxes. Bell, her brass surface shining brightly, would
be lifted from a box. The hand would shake her, and she would ring with joy. Her sound
brought smiles to those who held her. She'd be placed in the front and center of the tree,
for all to admire.

One year, smaller hands held her. They helped the big hands. The little hands
hung Bell in the right place, but they could not leave little bell alone. They'd touch Bell
to make her ring, but the big hands told them, "No! You might knock the tree down."
Bell was hung higher, away from the little hands.

Over the years, the little hands grew larger, and the big hands allowed them to
touch her. They placed her on the tree and allowed the smaller hands to move her.

A game began. Bell was moved around the tree. The one who found her, got to
hang her in a new place. Bell was hidden in the deepest and darkest places of the tree.
She waited patiently, until the smaller hands found her, made her ring, and then moved
her to a new spot.

Little Bell was the favorite ornament on the tree. She was proud.

After many years, the little hands got bigger. They hid her on the tree, and Little
Bell hung hidden from view - forgotten. The game was over. Bell was sad. She hung
alone at the back of the tree.

Years later, one of the big hands handed Little Bell to one of the small hands that
had grown. "This is yours. Take Little Bell with you."

The next Christmas, Bell was placed in the front of the tree. Her brass was
tarnished, but her ring was pure. She made the hand thing smile. She was happy.

A few Christmas' later, new small hands were putting "Little Bell" on the tree.
They played the game bell loved. Bell waited for the little hands to find her. They moved
her around the tree. Little Bell loved the game. She was the center of attention again. The
other ornaments hung brightly on the tree, but Little Bell, who was hidden, was the one
the hands reached for.

Those new little hands grew bigger, and Little Bell was once again placed on the
tree, her surface dull and tarnished from years of use. She was placed deep in the tree,
hidden from view. The big hands still playing the game, but there were no little hands to
look for her.

Little Bell was sad.

One day, a big hand reached out to her, "This is a pretty ornament! Where did it
come from?"

The other 'Big Hand' said, "That is the Little Bell. I played with it when I was a
kid. My brothers and I hid it on the tree and took turns trying to find it. Mom knew I
loved it and gave it to me, so her grandkids could play the game I did.

The new "Big Hand" took Little Bell, polished her brass, and hung her at the front
of the tree. Little Bell's brass reflected the lights and glowed with pride. The "Hand"
removed ornaments around Little Bell, so she would have her own special spot on the
tree. After years of hiding, Bell now hangs in a special spot at the front of the tree, but
prays for the day little hands will once again hide her.

Michael T. Smith

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.