The Angel with Yellow Cotton Candy Hair

It was Christmas Eve of 1973, and we had welcomed our first child just days before, walking gingerly through foot-high snow drifts to get to our townhouse door to bring him home.

John set up a real Christmas tree, strung its branches with lights, and hung each of the eighteen balsa wood ornaments I had painted from a set I bought at the dime store in honor of our first family Christmas. There was so much love in that tiny living room as we held baby Christopher up and watched his eyes brighten at the sight of his very first Christmas tree.

And then, in one of those postpartum second-guessing moments every new mother goes through, I gasped. “There’s no angel on the top of the tree,” I whispered. “We need an angel on the top of the tree!”

And so, John went out into the bitter cold night to find an angel for the tree. Most stores were already closed, but he found a little corner store with lights still on, and ran inside to explain the dilemma to the store owner. Together, they stepped over empty boxes and up and down disheveled store aisles until they found a shelf with one ninety-nine-cent red cardboard angel with praying hands and fluffy yellow hair, chubby cheeks, and shiny wings.

It fit perfectly on top of the tree that very first year, and still does, 51 years later.

The cardboard wings have curled over the years, the gold glitter on her robes has worn off, and the yellow cotton-candy-like hair is a bit wild, but the angel’s closed eyes are still prayerful and her demeanor is peaceful.

The angel has stood atop many Christmas trees over the years and listened to the fervent wishes of all four of our children. She’s smiled at their delight on Christmas mornings, patiently waited in the basement bins for her time in the limelight, and watched as macaroni ornaments with childhood school pictures, beautiful ceramic angels, Howdy Doody and Mickey Mouse, new “Grandma” and “Grandpa” ornaments, and each one of the balsa wood ornaments appeared and reappeared each year.

The angel’s place atop the tree is as assured as it was that first Christmas Eve when John drove around town until he found her—right where she was meant to be, in the last box on a shelf at the corner store on the other side of town, destined to sit atop our family Christmas tree that year and each and every year since.

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Articles by Vicki Bahr

Vicki Bahr

I'm a mother of four, grandmother of nine, wife of John for fifty three years, an incurable optimist, word lover, and story sharer. I've worked and played at many careers, from proofreader to preschool teacher, businesswoman to human interest newspaper columnist to medical records clerk. Each path has afforded me the opportunity to appreciate the warmth of humanity and to hopefully spread a lifetime of smiles, empathy, and God's inspiration along the way. My life continues to be one of delight. With experience comes understanding, with understanding comes peace.