i am the star

I suppose you could say I have the best seat in the house.

Obviously.

I mean — look at me.

Front and center.

Top billing.

Literally.

Not that I sit. Stars don’t sit.

We perch…with purpose.

Gracefully. Elegantly.

Leaning slightly to the left because someone (I won’t name names) jammed my base onto a branch that was CLEARLY not up to the job.

But fine. I make it work.

My shine isn’t quite what it used to be — I’ll admit that.

But honestly?

A slightly dulled star is still a star.

If anything, it gives me a vintage-y, heirloom vibe.

Very “passed down with love” meets “still hotter than any ornament below me.”

And speaking of below — and I do mean below — the ornaments are trying their absolute hardest. Dear ones.

Popsicle sticks, googly eyes, pom-poms, pipe cleaners glued together. Every one of them beaming with pride like, “I’m ART!”

Sweet children…you’re memories, not masterpieces.

Then there are the Santas — seventy-three of them in various vehicles: boats, cars, planes, skis, surfboards. All inexplicably cheerful.

It’s…a lot.

Glass balls, silver snowflakes, bright white lights.

Extras, extras.

And framed photos of gap-toothed children, braced children, bowl-cut children (sorry — not sorry), staring out from the branches.

I’m always saved for last, of course — wrapped in my little tissue-paper sleeping bag like the national treasure I am.

And then comes my big moment - lifted higher and higher in tiny chubby hands that used to wobble, then awkward tween hands that nearly dropped me, and now steady, practiced hands that know how to handle a star with some…panache.

Honestly, those hands have grown up right in front of me. And not to brag, but I have had a BIG hand in all of it.

From my perch, I monitor the situation.

Needlepoint stockings hanging from the mantle — color-coordinated, hand-stitched. That grandmother did not mess around (respect!)

A piano in the corner that gets beautifully played some days…and other days the cat thinks he is a musician (he is not).

Dogs wandering around living their best, clueless lives.

And the family — oh, the family.

I’ve watched them for years - the frantic early mornings, the shrieking, the footie pajamas, the wrapping paper tornadoes.

Now?

They stroll in at noon with iced coffees and lattes.

No urgency. No drama.

Which is frankly rude — I used to get an entrance at sunrise.

This room aches for a toddler — believe me, I felt the structural reinforcement in those days. Toddlers have grip.

But now there is something else. A kind of softness. A tenderness.

And here’s the secret from my perch:

Everyone’s pretending a little.

Pretending not to miss the old days.

Pretending not to worry about the new ones.

Pretending they’re not praying silently:

Let this matter.
Let this hold.
Let this feel like love.

And it does.

Even when the love is awkward, messy, rusty.

Even when the room is tired (it is).

Even when someone’s in a mood and someone else is overthinking.

Still — they showed up.

Do you know how rare that is?

Family doesn’t gather like this much anymore.

And yet — look at them.

They came home.

There were flights.

Delays.

Traffic.

Work emails ignored.

Suitcases unpacked.

Expectations lowered, then raised, then lowered again.

And still — here they are.

Together.

That’s the real magic in this room.

Not me — well, not only me.

I don’t shine for the perfect Christmas. The Instagram-worthy one.

I shine for the real one.

Where hugs happen a beat too long.

Where someone gets teary for no reason at all.

Where love is imperfect, but still present.

And now… the hands. Let’s talk about the hands. Because I have opinions.

I’ve been lifted, dropped, worshipped, dusted, and dramatically saved from falling by these hands for YEARS.

And honey, I remember every one:

Hands once sticky with frosting — and God knows what.
Hands that shoved me on crooked (RUDE).
Hands that lifted me with awe.
Hands that mended broken ornaments.
Hands that stirred gravy, wrapped gifts, tied bows.
Hands that carried babies.
Hands that comforted those same babies when they were too grown to be comforted.
Hands that held each other when life got heavy.
Hands that worked, cooked, cleaned, drove, wrote, stitched, organized, made, held on, let go.
Hands that reached out — again and again — even when it wasn’t easy.

These are the real lights in this room.

I just happen to reflect them…perfectly, I might add.

So go ahead.

Look up.

Notice the tilt.

Admire the shine.

(And ignore the cat — he is judging you.)

Because from the very top of this entire operation, for all these years, with all those hands gathered beneath me…

I take my bow.