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"The Angel Who Lost Her Tree" by Joe DiMino

Celeste was a pretty little angel. Everyone in Heaven loved her. She had the most charming wings, and rainbow halo; however, she had the forgetful habit of loosing things. When put in charge of clouds, a responsible position for all the flowers depended on the rain, she seemed to always misplace a few—dropping them between mountains making for foggy valleys; and even when rain fell from the clouds that Celeste was to oversee, several drops never made their way to the ground to nourish the crops in the fields and fruit trees, and no-one could ever find them no matter how where they looked. But she was still loved, for that is Heaven’s way. And God often reminded the other angels, that they must care for one another, just as they care for all the children in the world; watching over them as they sleep, and staying close, protecting them throughout the day while at school and later at play. So God’s response to the angels who thought Celeste was not of the highest rank was to give Celeste a very special responsibility—she would have her own Christmas tree.

Now as you know—or perhaps you don’t know so let me briefly explain: Some pine trees are blessed to be very special trees, with the greatest honor—that of becoming a season’s Christmas tree. They had to be just the right height, and grow no taller, for every family had their prayer order. They had to have just the right shape, and holiday green—with all of winter’s charming pine-fragrance, ultra frosting for just the right gleam. And that was the dilemma—Celeste had gotten separated from her tree.

As you know, or perhaps don’t know, so I will briefly explain—very briefly, for Christmas is only days away. What would a tree do without its angel atop? So sad if not one to hear children’s prayers and wishes; to bless the lights, the silver tinsel and charming decorations—all made with love, watched over by Guardians high above. Yes, what would Celeste’s tree do if the top were bare, without her angel’s care? She was frantic, and searched the forest, thinking perhaps it had not yet been cut. She tried the many parking lots and corners, where trees had gathered—already having been sorted, proudly waiting to be picked-up by their rightful owners. But Celeste could not find hers. She began to weep—her tears growing cold and changing to snow. Of course, though Celeste did not know it at the time, this was good; the children having all wished for snow on Christmas, and till then there had not fell a single flake; not one snowball any child was able to make. Soon the entire city was covered in Christmas-white—with snow reflecting all the many colored lights. Celeste grew sadder—which was good, for her tree heard her weep; and as everyone knows—or perhaps you don’t know, so I will briefly assure you, that Christmas trees never sleep. Though you don’t see them, they have ears and eyes way up above; seeing all and hearing all, ready to respond with love. Eyes of the many angels are seen as a sky of Christmas lights. Ears are the countless hosts of Heaven, as many as needed—always listening, at least two hearing every prayer, applauding every hymn celebrating Christmas nights. We celebrate Christmas nights as we do the joyful Eves and Days. The earth blessed by God with never-ending mirth when our greatest worth acknowledged is that of Jesus’ holy birth. Celeste’s tree grew ever greener and brighter—till Celeste could not help but notice such outpouring of light. Celeste found her tree; and I do believe it could very well be your tree? “A Merry Christmas to all—and to all a good night.”



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