Although our family tradition started with a silver, foil star on
the top of our tree, we began adding a crown of thorns a few years ago.
And when one of our stars fell apart, we omited it all together.

It is still very touching to me when I pull these crowns out of
their protective wrappers each November. I have heard the
story of Jesus’ torture and crucifixion hundreds of times since I was a child.
I could retell it with ease. Yet to hear any story, no matter how
developed an imagination you have, still doesn’t convey all
the small pieces they way a picture or a tangible object can.

The crowns, while so delicate in nature, are difficult to hold.
Even with ginger fingers they poke and prod and are
uncomfortable to handle for even a minute or two.
I flinch when I imagine it being shoved onto my head.
I shiver when I imagine it being accompanied by vicious taunts.
And I cry when I remember that my precious Savior endured that insult…

I don’t think for a moment that if I were given the opportunity to walk

through the whole thing, up close and personal, that I could process,

or even handle the truth.

Watching the Passion of the Christ is as real as I can muster.

And I have only done that once.

But holding these crowns for a few minutes every year and sharing
them with my children blesses me deeply.