It’s quiet. Not a creature is stirring. The warm glow of the Christmas tree is the only light in the room at this early hour.

I’ve been staring at this tree for a while now. Some of the ornaments are visible as if set apart by a tiny spotlight. Some are hidden like a dark silhouette against the tree, the only visible part being the outline of a star or a deer.

I can tell you this much. This tree is distinctly my tree. And by that I mean that it has my touch. It reflects my tastes and preferences. Nearly every ornament is something I picked out. Nearly every symbolic gesture stands for something I feel at Christmas.

I started my own tree my second Christmas without Beth. In part, I was tired of the same old tree. You look at the same red and gold ornaments for the last 25 years and sometimes you just feel the nudge to make a change.

The other reason just kind of evolved. I don’t think I planned it, but I think it had something to do with the changes I felt about who I was and who I might become.

I remember facing a choice. I could either hold on to everything as it had always been, and keep the tree exactly as it was. Or I could start fresh. Ornaments that suit my taste. More rustic, not so much refined. Wooden, not glass. Subtle, not adorned.

So, I made the change. I didn’t do it to forget the past. I did it to set my hope on the days out ahead of me. I even bought little wooden signs that hang on my tree saying “joy” and “hope” and “peace” knowing that I’d have to work at those sentiments more than usual.

This is my fifth Christmas around the new tree. I’m kind of like a veteran these days at facing this part of my life. Plus I’m also married to a terrific woman who shares a similar story of a lost and found life. We get each other’s story and we honor that.

Marion gave me a set of four ornaments for my tree this year. They’re glass, not wooden, but they have a kind of old world vibe to them.

Opaque, or maybe frosted in color. Hanging beside a mini-bulb, they almost appear to have a light inside them by the way they gather and reflect the light around them.

Each round ornament is the same. Engraved across the face in black etching is a grove of bare branched trees in winter. And perched among the branches are several brilliant red Cardinals.

Delicate. Warm. They almost appear to float like little orbs around the tree.

Marion gave them to me because she likes the notion that a cardinal in winter is a visit from a loved one. And even though things of that nature are above my pay grade, I can’t argue with the gesture.

“One is for Beth,” she says. “One for your mom & dad. One for your sister. And the last one for Mike, for when I’m at your house the day after Christmas.”

I have a lot to think about as I sit here and soak up the story of my Christmas tree. The tree itself is quite old. It may be the  only tree we’ve ever had. Hard to remember. It has certainly been around since we celebrated our first Christmas in this house 26 years ago.

And I don’t know why a silly plastic tree holds so much sway over the mood of a season. In that quiet glow it seems to carry every memory of the last 70 years of my life. If I sit here long enough, I can laugh, and weep, and laugh all over again.

What I know is this. Christmas is a wonderful time of year for me. My love for family far outweighs the losses. The blessings mean more as every year passes. The gratitude I feel is the one gift that never runs out.

That’s what I see this morning in the glow of my tree. An angel on top. A lifetime of changes hidden beneath its branches.

I can see daylight outside the porch windows now. I’m still basking in the light of my tree because I can for a little longer.

In just a few days it will be like a tornado moved into my house. It will be anything but quiet and contemplative.

Forgive me, but I’m gonna sit for just a few more minutes while I can.

Noel. Noel. Noel. Noel.

Born is the King of Israel.