The Eyes of the Wise
The other morning, as I sipped my coffee and waited for the sun to make its slow December debut, I looked over to the side table and found three tiny sets of eyes watching me.
My Wise Men.
I made them when I was eight, back in my Bluebird days—those “minor leagues” before graduating to Campfire Girls. I must’ve done a decent job painting them because Doreen (a.k.a. Mom), who had famously high standards for holiday décor and very little tolerance for “kid art,” declared them worthy of the official Heffron Christmas rotation. Each year they were displayed proudly, then carefully wrapped in tissue paper labeled Fragile—as if they were fine collectibles rather than the handiwork of a girl with crooked bangs and paint under her nails.
And somehow, they’ve been with me ever since.
As they watched me from the side table that morning, I wondered—what stories would they tell if they could speak? They’ve witnessed every chapter: the wide-eyed magic of childhood Christmases, the awkward teenage years where self-doubt and bell-bottoms reigned supreme, the college confusion, the early adulthood years full of beginnings and endings—jobs, marriages, babies, losses, divorces, hopes, disappointments, and the quiet rebuilding after each unraveling.
They’ve seen the girl who dreamed big.
The young woman trying so hard to meet expectations—others’ and her own.
The adult who navigated joy and heartbreak in almost equal measure.
And yet, through all that witnessing, they’ve never once looked at me with even a hint of judgment.
Maybe that’s what makes them truly wise.
Their gaze is steady, soft, and compassionate—like they know that a life is meant to be lived, not perfected. That mistakes are part of the curriculum. That growing up (and growing wiser) is less about getting it right and more about learning to see ourselves with a little more tenderness.
As we move deeper into this holiday season, I’m reminded that some of the most meaningful keepsakes aren’t precious because they’re flawless—but because they’ve accompanied us through every version of who we’ve been. They hold the story. The whole story.
So, when you unpack your own ornaments or stumble across something that has traveled through the years with you, pause and notice what it’s witnessed: your becoming, your resilience, your quiet strength.
May we all look at ourselves this season through gentler, wiser eyes.
Love & Light,
Michèle
