Posted on December 1, 2025 by Jenn (The CT Healthy Family) in Grace in the Mess, Everyday Growth
Every ornament tells a story — and this year, hanging them felt like flipping through the family album God’s been authoring all along.
There’s something almost sacred about the moment the tree goes up in our house — that quiet (or not-so-quiet, depending on the kids’ energy levels) ritual where the living room transforms from ordinary chaos to twinkling anticipation. This past weekend, with the air crisp outside and hot cocoa steaming on the counter, our family of six gathered around the bare branches like pilgrims at an altar. No big production, no matching pajamas (though we should probably invest in those), just us — Steve untangling lights with his trademark patience, the boys taking turns testing the star’s placement, and me pulling ornament boxes from the attic like unearthed treasures. It’s our annual reminder that Christmas isn’t about the glow; it’s about the stories those lights illuminate.
For us, the tree isn’t just decor — it’s a timeline. A visual scrapbook of graces received, growth earned, and God’s faithfulness etched in glass and glitter. As we unpacked each ornament this year, the nostalgia hit harder than usual. Maybe it’s the stage of life we’re in, with the boys stretching taller than the branches and the baby years feeling further behind us. Or maybe it’s the weight of the world right now, making these simple traditions feel like lifelines. Whatever the reason, hanging those little treasures turned into a two-hour worship service of sorts — punctuated by laughter, a few “Remember when?” stories, and more than one heartfelt prayer whispered over fragile memories.
We started with the basics: the handprint angels from preschool days, their edges still smeared with fingerpaint ghosts. Wyatt’s was first — our littlest, who at three declared this his “favorite job ever,” carefully pressing his palm into the clay like he was signing a covenant. Seeing it dangle there now, alongside his brothers’ faded versions, is a gut-punch of gratitude. How did we get from fingerpaint smudges to full sentences and independent prayers? And why does it feel like yesterday and a lifetime ago all at once? These aren’t just crafts; they’re milestones, markers of the small ways God has been shaping us — turning clumsy handprints into capable hands that serve, create, and love.
Then came the “adventure ornaments” — the ones that traveled with us through moves, mishaps, and that one unforgettable road trip where the van broke down in a blizzard (true story, and yes, it has its own snowflake-shaped badge of honor). Hunter and Sawyer claimed theirs this year, the boys who once argued over who got to hang the star now negotiating ornament placement like diplomats at a summit. “This one’s from Grandma’s last Christmas,” Sawyer said softly, holding up a delicate glass bell that still carries her faint perfume scent. Moments like that? They steal your breath. In a season that can feel so commercial and chaotic, these tiny talismans pull us back to the people, the places, and the promises that have carried us here.
Speaking of people, Nathan’s turn brought the laughs — our middle guy, who at eight insisted on “rescuing” the wonky wooden star from the discount bin at the craft store, declaring it his “mission from God.” Now, at twelve, he’s still got that same spark, carefully looping the ribbon around a branch while recounting the story like it’s legend. It’s these threads — the who, the when, the why behind each bauble — that make the tree more than tinsel. They’re echoes of answered prayers (that first “Baby’s First Christmas” from the year Wyatt arrived), tokens of trials overcome (the cross-stitched “Peace” from Steve’s hardest year at work), and whispers of whimsy (the Grinch who stole Wyatt’s heart and half the ornaments before we could blink).
The Nostalgia That Binds Us (And the Grace That Holds It All)
As the lights finally twinkled to life and the last ornament found its spot, the room felt different — warmer, fuller, like we’d not just decorated a tree, but dusted off our souls. Nostalgia has that power, doesn’t it? It’s not just sentiment; it’s sacrament — a tangible reminder that God’s been weaving beauty through our brokenness all along. That chipped ornament from our first married Christmas? It’s not a flaw; it’s a testament to the covenant that’s weathered moves, miscarriages, and more “I do-overs” than we can count. The kids’ school crafts? Proof that little hands are learning big lessons in love and loss.
And the stories they tell… oh, the stories. Like the year we hung a single ornament because grief over a lost pregnancy made everything else feel too heavy — and how God met us there with unexpected joy from the boys’ handmade cards. Or the one from our Maine trip last month, a tiny lobster charm my brother gifted after our escape-room escapades, whispering “family sticks closer than claws.” Each one is a chapter, a checkpoint, a “Look how far He’s brought us” etched in evergreen.
In the quiet after the kids crashed (exhausted from climbing the ladder one too many times), Steve and I sat by the tree with mugs of decaf, tracing the branches with our eyes. “It’s like a prayer journal,” he said, and I knew exactly what he meant. Every twinkle a testimony, every gap a grace in progress. This isn’t about a perfect holiday aesthetic; it’s about a perfect Savior who steps into our imperfect traditions and makes them holy. Who takes our nostalgia — sweet and stinging — and shapes it into something that binds us tighter, year after year.
“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.”
— James 1:17
As the season ramps up — with school plays, cookie swaps, and the inevitable “Mom, can we add lights to the doghouse?” — we’re holding these memories close. Not as relics, but as reminders: Christmas comes to the messy, the memory-laden, the families still figuring it out. And in the glow of our imperfect tree, we’re whispering thanks for the God who hangs His love on us, ornaments and all.
Still hanging on to hope, still stringing lights, still celebrating the Light that came down —
Jenn, Steve, and the whole CT Healthy Family crew
What’s your favorite ornament story? Or that one tradition that always brings the tears (good ones, mostly)? Share in the comments — we’d love to “hang” with you this season!
