Perhaps you have a battered sentimental object that comes out only at Christmastime. Maybe it’s something that family members gently ridicule, or urge you to toss away?

Mine is a wooden toy soldier whose name, for some reason, is Wally. He’s about two feet tall, with hinged arms and legs. His paint is nicked and he no longer stands up well by himself. But I place him at the hearth every year for Christmas.

Wally holds the title of the most sentimental Christmas object in my house. That title used to belong to another object until last spring when we moved: a beloved snowman made by my mother using 1950s-era foam balls and tissue paper. The snowman’s felt black hat, eyes, nose, and wry smile were gone. His tissue “snow” had yellowed to the point where even I had to admit it was just plain awful.

So rightly or wrongly, I succumbed to everyone’s begging and let him go. But Wally? He’s still with us. And he has an even a better story.

In 1985, at the end of my first semester of teaching at Southern Methodist University, I was driving home from turning in my grade sheets (think triplicate forms, carbon paper). Instead of being relieved, I felt profoundly sad. Never again would I be engaged with this particular group of talented students, studying together as we had been for sixteen weeks. I remember nearly crying.

Then, I drove past a garden shop advertising Christmas decor at 90% off. Well, who can resist that? The merchandise inside was gorgeous. Five bags of ornaments later, I was almost out the door when a wooden soldier tucked behind a flocked tree caught my eye. Ordinarily such a decoration would be too costly, but at 90% off?

Well, that’s how I acquired Wally, whose now-loose joints cause him to spend more time collapsing than standing at attention. He emerges at the end of Advent, signaling that it’s time to erect the tree. He is, if you will, our Christmas sentry.

We treasure objects like Wally because of the qualities they symbolize. Wally reminds me of a specific day when I understood just how much that first semester of teaching at SMU had meant. Years spent in libraries and practice rooms had allowed me a chance to engage in something I cherished. But Wally also symbolizes to me God’s ongoing grace, since those joys—teaching and learning—would be extended to me across many more decades, even unto today.

Some sentimental objects bespeak God’s grace. Other’s bespeak God’s mercy. Some objects may tell a different story—maybe one not as joyful, recalling painful memories. But they still hold a place in our hearts. We keep these objects because we still learn from them, grow with them. At least, that’s how it seems to me.

So unpack your seasonal treasures with pleasure. Take a minute and tell your children and grandchildren about them. Write something sweet about them on social media, or post them to Instagram, if you enjoy doing that. Or simply relish them over a cup of tea.

God works in mysterious ways during the season of Advent. And one path to our hearts may be through just the precious object you cradle in your hands.