Sappy

​Our Christmas tree came from Lowe’s this year. The artificial arbre is tricked out with LED and Bluetooth. We rock around that Christmas tree every night thanks to Spotify and Ella’s playlist. We have the choice of purple, green, multi -colored, or all white flashing lights that pulse in time with the beat. When I complained that it didn’t smell like a real Christmas tree, Bob bought us a diffuser and Ella plugged in our magical Christmas scents.

Elfie joined our Arnold circus many years ago. I really wish someone had told me to read the book before Elfie appeared. I’m pretty sure we were the only home in Americus in which the Elf was allowed to play. In fact, Ella loved her Elfie so much that she hooked him up with Barbie and they had kids. We built them a house. Seriously.

These days, Elfie hangs out on this new fancy tree. He can because the tree is fake, and he won’t get dirty.

I miss my real tree with the fresh scent, tree needles, occasional bugs, and sap.

When we live in the South during December, we must tolerate sap- that sticky substance seeping out of our Christmas trees. It is a vital part of any tree’s life but particularly annoying as we try to cheerfully decorate. My kids argued over who would string twinkle lights because they hated getting sap on their hands and clothes.

According to my brilliant brother-in-law Charles Hardin, this gummy substance carries important nutrients and water through the tree. It is essential for its health because all that cutting and pruning damaged it like a disease or infestation might.

In effect, the tree leaks sap to help heal its scars.

My mom faces routine procedures of skin cancer removal. Scar after scar reminds me of her determination to not give in. To not give up. This unfortunate side effect of kidney transplant medicine gives her no rest. Her scars are beautiful to me, but only because I see the hope in them. I also see my Dad doing whatever he can to help Mama find purpose and joy in each day.

From my left knee to my big toe, my seven surgeries have left their mark. These scars are fine lines now- only reminders of my skiing accident in college and a subsequent run in with a closet door at work. The door won.

When my sister was sixteen, a swinging door at Pizza Hut tore the back of her ankle, leaving a raised and painful wound. Anything that touched her scar hurt. It was surgically removed so she could get back to normal living. She says she doesn’t think about it anymore, but she knows it’s there.

If only all scars could be surgically removed.

Under the right conditions, scars pull and hurt, stinging with pain of past mistakes and misfortunes. Some ache and others itch. They might burn or tug. There are so many kinds of scars. Sometimes they hover near nerve endings that fire off with sudden, astonishing pain. This unanticipated anguish can recede as fast as it hits, leaving its owner stunned, reeling, and probably cussing.

Some people pick at an old scar until it bleeds again. Unable to leave it alone, they let the bitterness fester.

Many of my older, deeper scars sometimes become irritated during the holidays. While it is supposed to be a festive time of year, I know dear friends who find it unusually harsh. Christmas cheer for people who suffer loss is impossibly difficult to bear.

I can intentionally leave old scars alone this time of year; I make a choice for peace. My heart hurts for friends who bear their tragic pain until this season passes.

I’ve also made peace with how some people might not appreciate my eternal optimism rooted in faith and life experiences. I drip sap from my words just like a cut-up Christmas tree. People might only see my twinkle lights and miss the story flowing beneath.

Overtly sentimental.
Odorous with sweet memories.
A bit corny.

Pardon my sometimes gushy writing. I’m like everyone else trying to heal old scars.

One sappy word at a time.

pictures below from Reeve's Hardware Store, Clayton, Georgia

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