Serving Clovis, Portales and the Surrounding Communities
Serving Clovis, Portales and the Surrounding Communities
What does a time machine look like? Your guess is as good as mine. Probably better.
Whatever blurry images are filed in my mind under the category for “time machine” seem to be mostly of the science fiction sort, an amalgamation of parts and pieces, bits and bytes, digital readouts and antique clockfaces.
Gears of all sizes. Bright (probably Bakelite) knobs and shiny brass levers. Hoses and wires and a classic collection of spinning, buzzing, whirring, and otherwise eye- and ear-catching thingamajigs all somehow glued and screwed and welded together and, I suppose, doing something. Mostly, looking cool.
The machine I see inside my head also seems to emit, spew, or lazily leak from various joints, junctures, and pressure fittings, occasional puffs of steam, smoke, or mysterious gas. Why? I have no idea.
Again, coolness.
Oh, and since most vintage time-travel books and movies agree that any worthwhile chrono-busting machine needs a comfortable or not, leather or not, seat for the inventor or scientist or ... victim, my mental machine has one, too.
What I’ve not yet mentioned is that for well over 60 years, for at least a month each year, I’ve lived with a time machine carefully set up in a place of honor in my family’s home. In fact, I’m looking at the most recent one right now.
But the time machine presently sitting in my living room bears little resemblance to the odd gizmo I’ve just (out of my head in so many ways) tried to describe. It has no seat or gears, no levers or knobs or hoses. I don’t see anything on it spinning or smoking.
But it does boast many feet of wiring and is covered in lights and sparkling glittery objects. And I tell you the truth, this time machine works.
One of its smallest adornments is a fragile glass ball, blue and fading. I touch that little bauble, and I’m transported back to my childhood home. Seven of the lights on this “machine” are equipped with glass columns holding cheerfully bubbling liquid. One look, and, yes, I’m a kid again.
If I want to choose other years, times to which I desire to travel, I just touch a velvet reindeer, feel a glass icicle, laugh at a string of lit-up plastic candy characters. And did I mention that this time machine boasts, on loan from the heavenly host, an angel on top overseeing all that’s happening below? What a machine!
And now I’ll tell you plainly what you’ve already surmised. My real-life time machine is called a Christmas tree, and it can convey me across the years and span decades in the twinkling of an eye or in the millisecond sparkle of a treasured old ornament.
Oh, the years fly by! Were I a lot smaller, I suppose I could go on circular trips aboard the electric train at the bottom of the tree. But for a much better ride and more joyful journey, all I need to do to get my time-ticket punched is to glance at a vintage ornament or ponder a family parable told by a cherished cherub lovingly placed on the branches of our time machine tree.
I know. Not all memories or times are the kind we savor. Some ache and sting, and we’d choose to go anywhere but back. But the One whose name this season bears has promised to travel with us and love us through all of life’s times. In my experience, he always has. I believe he always will. And I believe him because of a long-ago tree.
Curtis Shelburne writes about faith for The Eastern New Mexico News. Contact him at:
