The Tree Angel

“Why is he so sad?”

“It is Christmas Eve and his home is empty.” The old elfin replied.

The little one reached his small hand into the silver music box, his tiny fingers caressing the enchanted mirror set into the polished lid. The Christmas melodies had gone mute.

“No one is coming?” The smallest elf asked.

“Oh, they will be there tomorrow. But tonight, he is alone. That is why he is sad. For thirty years, each Christmas Eve, children have sat in a circle around the tree. There they would wait…”

“It is a beautiful tree!” The wee one offered.

“Yes, it is. But he has no one to finish it.”

The little elf leaned in closer, carefully inspecting the old man’s home.

 “Where are they?” He wondered aloud.

“His children? They have all grown up. The youngest just set out to start her own family. Some have moved far away, others not so far. But now, they have their own children, their own families, and their own traditions.”

The tiny elf looked up, “I don’t understand. What is grown up?”

Saint Nick smiled, “People aren’t like you and me. They change. In the beginning, they are quite tiny. Smaller than you.” He playfully patted the other on top of his head. “And when they are still little, filled with hope and laughter...they believe! But the day will come when they are no longer little and sadly, they no longer believe." He paused, looking into the music box, "All of his children have grown up.”

“They don’t believe?” The small one asked.

The old elf did not reply.

“What are transitions?” He asked.

“Traditions.” He corrected. “Can you still see the tree?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It is wonderful, but it is not finished. The top of tree is bare. Can you see the box he is holding?”

The elf nudged the silver music box with the palm of his hand. The image of the unfinished Christmas tree faded; quickly replaced by a new one; an old man, sitting in a deep, worn-out chair. He looked so glum. On his lap was a brown box, its edges no longer sharp, and a small hollow in one end.

“What’s in the box?” He asked.

Nicholas picked up the tiny elf and sat him on his knee. As the old elf spoke,the silver music box chimed a Christmas melody. The mystical mirror changed again; this time a home, crowded with laughing children filled the frame. The aroma of sugar cookies floated on the air.

“An angel. A beautiful angel. She wears a long gown, white as Christmas snow. Her wings are also white, trimmed in wool so soft the clouds would be envious. The top of the tree has belonged to her every Christmas for thirty years. Each year, the man in the chair, he is the father, would gather his children in a circle and tell them the story of the first Christmas. And when he was finished, he would slowly stroll around the circle, holding the box in his big hands, singing “Who will it be? Who will it be this year?” Then he suddenly stops, touching the nearest child on their shoulder. And then gently, he would place the beautiful angel in their tiny hands. Then he would lift them up high! High above the top of the great tree. From below, he would watch as the lucky child carefully placed the angel. All the other children would cry out in glee.”

The old elfin paused, remembering Christmas’ past.

“It was their tradition.” He added.

“And now he has no one to help him?” The little elf cried.

“It was never about helping. He could have placed the angel with no care. It was about family. It was about sharing. It was about being together. About love. It was…tradition.”

The little elf reached out, first smoothing the great white beard of the old elf, and then wiping away his tears.

Closing the music box, the red clad elf with the long white beard, stood up, "I have much to do," he said, "after all, it is Christmas Eve."

The tiniest elf sat alone, the silver box held in his lap. Visions of lonely rooms and trees without angels danced before him.

 “ I hope I never grow up.” He followed Saint Nick into the night.