Belief

On the night before Christmas, all through my childhood, we were allowed to open one present; our annual Christmas ornament. And even though we knew what it was, it was what it would say about us that mattered. These were meaningful and unique gifts, chosen to tell a story of who we were and what we were becoming. They were talisman, prophets, little hanging enneagrams. They gave us our place in the order of things. Dancers, music, ponies, owls; whatever we loved, we would find.

On December 24, 1968, at the age of 11, I opened my gift and found a blown-glass Pinocchio with a nose in full-lie position. I was immediately embarrassed, and wished to be swallowed by a whale. Whether I loved Pinocchio or not, I honestly can’t remember. What I do remember is a needle-nosed stab in a very tender place, because 1968 was the year I got caught telling lies. I lied about eating the last Eskimo Pie, about who broke the lamp, about being sick. I lied about the teacher who’d won a trip to Peru (she hadn’t). I can’t remember all the lies I told, but I do know why I told them; I wanted to be special, I wanted to be interesting, I wanted to be better. I wanted to become a real girl, no strings attached.

My Pinocchio ornament broke mysteriously when my kids were little, (to this day no one’s confessed to the crime), but I still have what’s left of it, and the long lying nose remains intact. And year after year on some cold December night, in the middle of a family gathering, I’ll unwrap a pocket-sized shard of shame and marvel at its staying power. For such a fragile thing, it’s lasted an awfully long time. But what a gift it is to take it out of hiding, and place it on the tree, and watch the light reflect across its brokenness. It hangs there between an angel and a king, with a small winters tale to tell. Whether you believe the tale or not, is up to you.