Amid the pretty glass baubles, hand-carved wood shapes, colorful projects made by the children and old-fashioned gold beads, a large pompon hangs from a piece of yarn. And it's not a pretty one, either. Dirty white-and-mustard-colored yarn, hand-tied, it forms a ball about the size of an orange. Every year, I hang it on the tree. I always will, because it reminds me of the true spirit of Christmas.

Several years ago at Christmas time I volunteered to take a group of nine-year-old Cub Scouts to deliver poinsettia plants. The list given us by the church contained the names and addresses of six elderly, housebound residents who might be cheered by receiving a Christmas plant. They were cheered all right, but probably more from seeing that group of squirming boys decked out in their yellow kerchiefs and blue shirts than from the plant they received. We made our deliveries one by one, calling out "Merry Christmas!" as we left each home. Five houses down, one to go.

We waited for ages in the dimly lit hallway of the last apartment house on our list. As we were about to turn away, we heard a faint shuffle and a fumbling at the door. It finally opened, and a small woman peeked out. She was less than five feet tall and in her late 80s. At the sight of the Cub Scouts, she opened the door wider with a surprised smile.

"Come in! Come in!" she said to us.

Obviously not used to company, she tried to move stacks of newspapers and clothes off the chairs in her tiny kitchen. "I have no place for you all to sit," she said. It's okay, we assured her. We just wanted to bring her a gift.

When the boys held out that plant -- by far the most colorful, cheerful object in the small cluttered apartment -- tears wet her wrinkled cheeks. "Oh, you dear, dear boys..." she said. "You dear, wonderful children..."

Slowly, with arthritic hands, she moved things around on her table to make room for the plant, while I tried hard not to be nosy. But I couldn't help it. What a depressing, dark little place. The only sign of Christmas was an old, two-foot tall artificial Christmas tree on a table, adorned with some sort of yarn balls.

"I must give you boys something!" she said, groping around in a basket for anything to give. She rustled up some old stale candy and handed it out to the uncomfortable boys, who were making small movements toward the door. "Oh, this beautiful plant, and I have nothing to give you," she said, worriedly, as she looked around once more.

"It's okay," I said, "I don't need anything."

But she fussed anyway, looking for anything she could give me. Finally she took a dirty white-and-mustard-colored pompon off the tiny Christmas tree and handed it to me. "It's all I have to give," she said. I didn't want to take it -- but I surely couldn't give it back.

We said our goodbyes and were on our way.

I hung the pompon on our Christmas tree when we got home, and after Christmas it was packed away with the rest of our ornaments.

The following Christmas, as we decorated the tree, I decided not to put that homely thing on our pretty tree. So I left it in the bottom of the ornament box, along with the broken ornaments and extra hooks. Until my eight-year-old daughter found it. "Mom!" she said. "We forgot this one!"

"Well," I said, "it's kind of ugly, isn't it? We don't have to put it on every year." She looked at me like I was the Grinch. "But Mom!" she said, holding up that ratty pompon. "Don't you remember that old lady? And how this was all she had to give?"

Needless to say, it hangs on our tree today. It will be there every year.