Note: this essay describes a pair of earrings that I purchased long before I knew that earrings would be the source of good memories!

Shaped almost like a gingko leaf, these bright pink metal earrings are some of the oldest I own. I purchased them at a women’s retreat held at Montgomery Bell State Park in middle Tennessee. Newly divorced, with the care of three small sons, I really didn’t have the money for the retreat, let alone the pink earrings.

I think I might have been in that period of “you deserve this” when it came to special items that I really shouldn’t purchase. And they perfectly matched a casual pink pant outfit that I had on that day. Not only that, they were big and dangly—splashy, you might say—and, introvert though I was (and remain), I was ready to make a bit of a statement. No more small pearls or gold balls in my ears—these earrings would show up.

I had recently moved from rural western Tennessee, where I had been the rather demure pastor’s wife, to the big city of Nashville. I was attending the largest Nazarene church in the state—and, somehow, with citified ways and large populations comes a laxer view of bodily adornment. If everybody else was wearing “showy” earrings, why shouldn’t I? I felt I had nothing more to lose: my marriage was gone, disappeared with the man who now said he had never loved me. The small purchase of some large earrings, if a sin, was a small one.

Even now, considering that word “sin,” I must stop to reflect on my attitude at that time. I was well beyond the notion that jewelry was sinful. But I definitely wasn’t beyond the true nature of sin—that rebellion against God. Was I trying to punish God by my little (and larger than little) acts of rebellion? Was it his fault that my marriage had failed? Was it simply desperation that I wanted to look good for someone else if I wore the pink earrings?

Whatever it was, it was also motivated by the “you deserve this” attitude. Instead of trusting God to take care of me and my three boys, I was trying to take care of myself in ways that would never work. Wearing jewelry is not a sin, but adorning the self in order to win attention probably is. Neither is purchasing a bauble a sin, but being irresponsible with money probably is.

I have a game I like to play in my mind. When I purchase an item of clothing or jewelry or some souvenir, I like to keep track of how long I keep it and how often I use it. Then I divide the original price by that number and I realize that the purchase was, perhaps, a good one for lasting value. I’ve had the pink earrings for about 35 years. I have no idea what they cost, but I’m sure the use value is much less than a dollar a year.

Fortunately, it did not take me 35 years to wake up to the fact that trusting God with my life is much better than trying to run my life by myself. The first years of my divorced life were rough emotionally and spiritually. Good friends, good counselors, and a good church helped me through that time—and I have the pink earrings as a good reminder of that.

I thought he was Santa Claus. I really did. I’m not sure exactly why I thought that. He didn’t wear a red suit, but an old pair of baggy black pants, a white shirt, and a dark green sweater. He didn’t have a beard, but he did have a little bit of white hair. Perhaps it was the pipe that was always alight, with smoke swirling above his head, just like the “smoke that encircled his head like a wreath” in the famous poem. And the smoke smelled so good—cherry wood pipe tobacco. To this day, I love the smell, even if tobacco does kill people!

Mostly, though, it was his lap, always open and ready for a little girl like me to climb up and settle myself. He must have talked to me some, but I don’t remember that part. I just remember being held in that big, comfy, soft body. No one else did that. My dad hardly ever touched me. I can remember one time, before I was two, that he held me up so that I could look out the window into the soft twilight of a summer’s night, memorable because he had brought home ice cream for us to eat. My grandpa, who occasionally was on the same property as my uncle, was never allowed in the house when we were around. I only remember him as a shadowy figure who had a very neat cot in the garage.

For all those reasons—the Santa effect, the cherry smoke, the big lap–that interacted with each other, I loved Uncle Ira, who wasn’t really my uncle; he was my great uncle, my mother’s maternal uncle. And he lived with my grandma in her shotgun style house. When my mother, my older sister, and I went to visit, I would dash through the front room, which was the bedroom, into the middle room, which was the living room where Uncle Ira was always ensconced in an easy chair that sat right next to an east-facing window that let in all kinds of sunlight. He was always in that chair, except at mealtimes or at night.

Grandma’s house didn’t have a proper bathroom, just a little stall for a toilet. The only sink was the kitchen one, so grooming had to happen there. That’s where we could watch Uncle Ira shave. He’d sharpen his straight razor on his strop, lather up his face, and tilt it this way and that to get all the stray whiskers from his face and neck. He didn’t seem to mind the fact that two little girls stood gawking at him as he performed his daily “toilet.”

I presume he paid attention to my sister as well as to me, but, I think perhaps because I was the youngest child in the family, I had the privilege of sitting in that lap, patting his face, playing with his pipe and sweater buttons, and chattering nonsense. Perhaps, too, that familiarity was welcomed by him, a lonely, retired elevator operator who had no home except his sister’s. Whatever the case, I was the one who received two gifts from him. One, his two-sided shaving mirror, I kept till it broke; the other, an extremely small Christmas decoration I have to this day. Measuring about two inches bytwo inches, it is made with a small circle of pine wood, bark still on, with an even smaller pine twig lying on its side as a bench on which is a tiny snow figure made of a pipe cleaner. To make the scene complete, a very small flocked Christmas tree sits beside the twig bench.

I’m sure the little ornament was something he picked up in a five and dime, but it was—and is—the most special of all my Christmas decorations. It’s the last tie I have to an uncle who showed his love to me, not just by the gift, but by the welcoming arms and lap.

Our colleague Ruth, who had always taken upon herself the task of shepherding English majors through the English countryside, uncovering every possible literary connection, had departed for another college. Our chair Judy decided that this was the perfect opportunity for our department to investigate the possibilities of educational travel by doing a “dry run” of an England trip, planned by none other than ourselves.

As ambitious and expensive as such a trip might be, at the time the university seemed flush with money for faculty development exercises such as this and Chair Judy was not to be denied. Plans advanced apace and five of us—all women—trekked across the ocean (actually, just flying as all people do) during our spring break. What an experience! We did do a lot of trekking, as it turned out, but much of that was up and down stairs at bed and breakfasts that had no lifts. And regardless of Judy’s plans to use taxis, we still did a fair amount of walking to places and in places of interest.

What were those places? I really have no idea—the plan worked and the department did begin to offer regular trips to England, sponsored by a rotation of faculty members. I was lucky enough to be one of the sponsors on the first and second of those trips, as well as one other; thus, the memory of the first trip has been effaced by several other visits to the same or similar places. I know that we visited Stratford-on-Avon—no English professor would dare omit a visit to Shakespeare’s hometown. Oxford, possibly. Bath and Stonehenge, most certainly. Westminster Abbey, without a doubt.

My favorite place, however, was, and has remained, Salisbury with its charming town square, its market cross, and its impressive cathedral. The cathedral, situated on the plain, can be seen for several miles on the rail approach to the city because of the magnificent spire that graces its center crossing. Unlike many cathedrals, it does indeed lie flat on the ground without the usual crypt below it. It just sits there, surrounded by a veritable grove of trees, flowers, and shrubs, ready to welcome the visitor and the congregant to come in and bask in its gothic beauty of arches, lacey stonework, and marvelous windows that spill sunlight over the interior.

But I don’t have earrings from Salisbury—I may have a gargoyle magnet from there, since I do enjoy gargoyles of all types with their haunting visages and unusual structures—creatures, animal or human or both, with external spines, pointed ears, bulbous noses, grimacing mouths—all to ward off the evil spirits from the sacred space.

I do have earrings to commemorate the trip, however, a small memento picked up, in all places, at the Next store in the duty free area of Heathrow Airport on my way home. My colleague Jill, in a passing statement, noted that earrings are small and easy to carry home as a souvenir. I just happened to pop into the store to spend some leftover pounds, and there they were, small silver cages of swirls. Inexpensive, not at all unique, but just what I needed to remind me of that first important trip to England. I would return with students, with friends, with a new husband, but I would never forget the first trip with four other colleagues, struggling with our too-large suitcases, but wide-eyed with the glories of America’s old homeland.

Note: Not being versed in theology or the intricacies of the church calendar year, I can only write what I know or imagine about this day, January 1, that is called “Holy Name” day. So, for today, a musing of mine.

Holy Name Day—the scripture from Matthew 1: 18-25 records that Joseph named the child “Jesus,” according to the command of the angel. It was, more than likely, a common, run-of-the-mill name of the day that invoked the image of the most famous of the leaders/saviors following Moses’ day: Joshua. But this, the common, the ordinary, became extraordinary—a historical savior became the eternal Savior. The infant with probably even odds of dying or living is saved to become Savior.

What did they know and when did they know it? Of course, according to the gospel accounts, both Mary and Joseph knew of the extraordinary nature of the child who was born to them that night. But how much of that extraordinary story did they keep front and center during those early days of caring for the infant? They would have been reminded of the fact when they took Jesus to the temple to be circumcised and formally named on the eighth day. When the old man Simeon praised God for the promise being fulfilled, Luke records Mary and Joseph’s reaction as one of wonder for the words.

But the extraordinary continues because the old woman Anna also confirms the nature of this infant whose name—and task—would be “Savior.” How like the gospel of our Savior—to record words of both man and woman to validate the birth of this most extraordinary infant. The patriarchal voice alone was not enough—all of creation—male and female—recognized this birth.

But the question remains, what about the extraordinary remained in the forefront? On that first Christmas night, what did Mary and Joseph and the shepherds see? An infant, newly born, most likely sleeping, as new infants do most of the time, but crying out every two hours or so to be fed. On that night, did Mary think of the extraordinary in this child, or in her tiredness did she do what he had to do—offer her breast to the child for his nourishment.  Later, the gospel says she pondered all that had happened in her heart.  

Did Mary and Joseph remember the extraordinary when Jesus was turning over, pulling himself up, crawling, taking his first step, getting his first tooth? Ordinary stages from infancy to childhood. I doubt any of it seemed extraordinary except for the fact that in a day when infant mortality was high and childhood diseases claimed the lives of many, Jesus continued to live and prosper, growing into an ordinary boyhood, perhaps tussling with his younger brothers, playing pranks on his younger sisters.

Only one event of Jesus’ childhood is recorded in the gospels—the visit to the temple when he was twelve. Even that began as an ordinary event—Luke records that the parents went up every year to Jerusalem to celebrate Passover. The words to his parents when they find him among the priests in the temple are the extraordinary in this part of the story: “Did you not know that I was bound to be in my Father’s house?” (NEB). I wonder what the tone was—could it have been the typical brashness of the youth who feels his coming independence? However it was said, once again the gospel records that Mary “treasured” all of these things in her heart.

Do we ponder and treasure the magnificence of the miracle of Jesus’s birth in our hearts? God came to earth as an infant child, ordinary, susceptible to all the dangers of the environment, alert to all the stimuli of light of stars and lanterns, the sounds of voices—angel, men, animals—the touch of a mother’s soft skin, the scent of a father’s rough cloak. Amazing, really—his life, like each of ours, a miracle. His, perhaps, more than most, against the odds, yet God, through human parents and others, saved him to be our Savior—extraordinary!

It was a dark and stormy night—doesn’t every writer, at some point in time, want to use that line? But, in this case, it was true: it was a dark and stormy night. We were splashing through puddles of water as we raced down the sidewalks, stopping every once in a while, to assess where we were—still on track to get to Phillips Bookstore? Yes, we were, so on we ran, jumping puddles, ruining umbrellas, but determined to get to this bookstore that all of us had heard of, but none of us had seen.

Who were we? Six students and one professor, all part of the Sigma Tau Delta International English Honor Society Convention that was happening in Portland, Oregon. So, dare I confess? We skipped a session to do what every good bibliophile would do—browse a bookstore.

And browse we did: up and down aisles, up and down steps, floor to floor, running into each other, telling each other where to find particular kinds of books, and then separating to go to yet another unexplored section of the store. The building was old and the arrangements were challenging—aisles dead ended or branched off like a rabbit warren. Sometimes steps and ramps led us to a whole new section of books—but not ones that we were necessarily looking for. Finally, exhausted, we were ready to make our purchases and make our way back to the hotel.

That’s when I realized I was missing an earring. Was it valuable? Not really, I imagine the pair had cost me less than $10. But it was an earring that triggered a memory. Two years before I had arranged to meet my sons for Thanksgiving, renting two condos in the mountains outside of Asheville, North Carolina.

Ever since my second marriage we had struggled to be “family” as we had always been—just me and the boys, with the welcome addition of one daughter-in-law, one grandson, one granddaughter, and one significant other. 

 The original plan was for me to meet my side of the family without Jim.  But I just couldn’t do that; he was, after all, the man whom I had loved enough to marry and live with. On the other hand, blending two families when all the children are adults is not at all easy, and, at that time, we had failed most miserably to mix, let alone blend. Thus, the weekend was not a great success. We had had one truly Belcher night, however, when we played games and, as usual, good-naturedly argued about rules and answers till we all were laughing uncontrollably—even Jim, who usually looks at me like I’m crazy when I laugh at most things..

The earrings in question were purchased on our Saturday foray into Asheville to see the grand old hotel and eat lunch at my friend Ruth’s favorite restaurant. Jim and I found a trolley ride that the grandchildren would enjoy and the route to the restaurant from the trolley exit passed a local boutique. And there I found the earrings—green and brown rectangles recycled from flooring tiles. Unique, memorable. These would always remind me of the highs and lows of the weekend—the tenseness of the Thanksgiving dinner itself, but the relief of the laughter-filled game night and the fun of playing with two grandchildren that I never see often enough.

And, then, somewhere on a Portland windswept street or in the meandering aisles of Phillip’s Bookstore, I had lost one of these earrings. But I’ve not lost the memory—either of the time of purchase or the time of the loss. Both memories bring me—joy?—no, that’s not quite the word I want. They bring me comfort—time has done for my family what one weekend couldn’t do and time hasn’t erased the pleasure of being with students, even after losing an earring.

“Okay. Hop in the car. We’re going to the mall,” I cried about three weeks before Christmas.

“Yay!” was the universal cry from all three boys, ages 8, 5, and 3. The mall, to them, meant a visit to the machines that spit out little toys and gum balls.

“We’re not really going into the mall, but you’ll see when we get there.”

The mall was only a mile from our house, an easy five-minute drive up the hill that would land us out onto big Nolensville Pike. But I turned at the back entrance to the mall and drove straight towards the corner of the lot where Christmas trees were lined up row upon row.

“We’re here to buy a real Christmas tree. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?” I asked.

Once more the answer “Yay!” was universal. I had said the magic word “buy.” And they knew
“real” was better than “fake” because anytime we went to my childhood home in Indiana, both my parents and my sister had real trees. Their dad’s family, who lived in Florida, not only did not have a real tree, but nothing really seemed “real” about Christmas in the sunshine state.

Out we all tumbled, racing to the first line of trees. We had several things to consider: cost, size, cost, type, cost. To buy any real tree when there was a perfectly good—at least almost perfectly good—artificial tree in the closet was risky business for this single mom who was still struggling to make ends meet, even with a decent teaching job.

But I needed this tree—we needed this tree—we needed to claim Christmas as a four-person, rather than a five-person family, and starting a new tradition of buying a real tree rather than relying on the hand-me-down artificial tree from my sister was one way to make Christmas ours again.

Just a few days before I had been thinking that we wouldn’t even put up the artificial tree—the boys would be going to visit their dad for Christmas. Why have a tree? It would not be a real Christmas without them in the house. Finally, I realized how wrong-headed my thinking was. The day, the date, wasn’t as important as the season, and we could celebrate with the tree, regardless of where we would all land on Christmas day. Hence, this tree-buying expedition.

“What about this one, Mom—just smell those branches,” said Jonathan.

“Oh, I don’t like this one. It’s too prickly!” cried David.

Actually, they were doing most of the looking, because I was concentrating on not losing Geoffrey among the trees and on the ribbons that were the price tags.

“Can I help you, lady?” said the tree lot man.

“Well, we need something not too tall because we need to be able to decorate it and not too expensive because we will only be using it till the week before Christmas—none of us will be home on Christmas day.”

“Here are some Scotch pines. They’re the most economical. And right over here are the ones that are between five and six feet tall.”

We all tramped over to the trees the man pointed to. He dutifully held up one after another as we “oohed” and “aahed” at the various trees.

And there it was—a fat, short tree—just right for us. I paid the money; the man put the tree in our trunk, tied it shut, and wished us a “Merry Christmas.” We piled back in the car, drove down the hill one mile to our home, and dragged that fat tree out of the trunk, in through the front door, and stared at it. Even without decorations, it was making Christmas come alive in the house. The dark green branches, the pungent pine smell, even the sappy tar that coated our fingers, making them stick to each other, shouted “Christmas” in a way that the artificial tree just could not do.That was 34 years ago. Every year I still have a real tree—and so do my boys. Who knows, when my grandkids are grown, perhaps they will keep the tradition going—all because a four-person family, rather than a five-person family, needed to claim Christmas in their own way.