Trimming the tree
I love Christmas trees. I love their cozy glow when the other lights are off. I love their cheerful promise of fun surprises wrapped beneath. And I love the scent of resin that fills the room in the days when the tree is new and fresh off the lot.
In other words, I always have real trees. When I was growing up, my dad would cut our tree down from some random place on the island where we lived. Sometimes he had permission. Other times he pushed his way through the forest and found a likely tree and assumed that no one would notice. It never occurred to me until years later that he was technically stealing. It seemed more like he was helping to thin out the overwhelming Pacific Northwest verdancy where blackberry vines are prone to overtake a parked car by the close of the day if you park too near a bramble when you come to work.
Not even kidding. Well, not very much.
Occasionally the trees were beautifully formed, with nice spaces to hang ornaments and a lovely, conical shape. But mostly they were airy island trees, impacted by years of drought or swamped by too much rain, making them nothing like typical Christmas trees but rather like something resembling a 17-foot tall Dr. Seussian cartoon. But we loved them, tied them to the cross-beams of our cathedral ceiling for stability and jammed them into a five-gallon bucket filled with dampened sand. Grandma’s felt and sequined tree skirt jollied up the bucket and added the perfect touch of hominess and love.
Many of our ornaments were made by Grandma. How she didn’t go blind from sewing thousands of those sequins onto ornaments year after year was a Christmas miracle. Those are among my most cherished decorations now, hanging side-by-side with puzzle-piece Christmas trees made by my kids and a myriad of wooden Swedish Tomptes and Dala horses, not because I’m Swedish but because I love the color red. Ours is an eclectic mix of ornaments and I love it. None of this perfectly-hung, themed, color-coordinated decorating for me. Give me the memories and the cuteness any day.
It was the memories that really got to me this year as I opened boxes of ornaments that came from my mom and dad’s house last summer. These ornaments were the origins of my love of all things Christmastree. These ornaments were hung by my mother with care. These ornaments were held by her. Loved by her.
As I decorated the tree, the movie Little Women playing on the TV in the background, I grew more and more despondent. Why wasn’t I excited about this? Why wasn’t I feeling all the feels?
I finished and sat down to look at the final product. Granted, it looks a little weird, given that the bottom third of the tree is bare due to our year-old cat being on the naughty list, but even overlooking that, it just looked…sad. Wrong. Unhappy.
I went to bed shortly thereafter, and as I lay awake praying, as I always try to do when I first climb into bed, it dawned on me what was wrong.
I missed my mom.
I wanted to talk to her about the ornaments. I wanted to laugh with her at the children’s ones and smile with her at the Grandma ones. I wanted to hear her laughter and see her sitting by the tree on Christmas morning, always up before me reading her Bible even when I was up early on that exciting day. I wanted to hear her calling my dad “Davey” and watch her while she brought him coffee.
I prayed, right then, for the day that Mom and Dad are together again. When that day comes, she’ll tilt her head up for a kiss as he steps into Glory and the joy that has been missing in his heart these past three years come Christmas day when she went away, will surge in like the tide as she leads him to meet Jesus face-to-face.
It’s a hard time of year. And it’s a glorious time of year. May it be, for you, a time of happy memories and an opportunity for new ones. Whether they’re on your tree or in your heart.
“‘Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?’ The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” 1 Corinthians 15:55-57
Merry Christmas, my friends.
Soli Deo Gloria
In other words, I always have real trees. When I was growing up, my dad would cut our tree down from some random place on the island where we lived. Sometimes he had permission. Other times he pushed his way through the forest and found a likely tree and assumed that no one would notice. It never occurred to me until years later that he was technically stealing. It seemed more like he was helping to thin out the overwhelming Pacific Northwest verdancy where blackberry vines are prone to overtake a parked car by the close of the day if you park too near a bramble when you come to work.
Not even kidding. Well, not very much.
Occasionally the trees were beautifully formed, with nice spaces to hang ornaments and a lovely, conical shape. But mostly they were airy island trees, impacted by years of drought or swamped by too much rain, making them nothing like typical Christmas trees but rather like something resembling a 17-foot tall Dr. Seussian cartoon. But we loved them, tied them to the cross-beams of our cathedral ceiling for stability and jammed them into a five-gallon bucket filled with dampened sand. Grandma’s felt and sequined tree skirt jollied up the bucket and added the perfect touch of hominess and love.
Many of our ornaments were made by Grandma. How she didn’t go blind from sewing thousands of those sequins onto ornaments year after year was a Christmas miracle. Those are among my most cherished decorations now, hanging side-by-side with puzzle-piece Christmas trees made by my kids and a myriad of wooden Swedish Tomptes and Dala horses, not because I’m Swedish but because I love the color red. Ours is an eclectic mix of ornaments and I love it. None of this perfectly-hung, themed, color-coordinated decorating for me. Give me the memories and the cuteness any day.
It was the memories that really got to me this year as I opened boxes of ornaments that came from my mom and dad’s house last summer. These ornaments were the origins of my love of all things Christmastree. These ornaments were hung by my mother with care. These ornaments were held by her. Loved by her.
As I decorated the tree, the movie Little Women playing on the TV in the background, I grew more and more despondent. Why wasn’t I excited about this? Why wasn’t I feeling all the feels?
I finished and sat down to look at the final product. Granted, it looks a little weird, given that the bottom third of the tree is bare due to our year-old cat being on the naughty list, but even overlooking that, it just looked…sad. Wrong. Unhappy.
I went to bed shortly thereafter, and as I lay awake praying, as I always try to do when I first climb into bed, it dawned on me what was wrong.
I missed my mom.
I wanted to talk to her about the ornaments. I wanted to laugh with her at the children’s ones and smile with her at the Grandma ones. I wanted to hear her laughter and see her sitting by the tree on Christmas morning, always up before me reading her Bible even when I was up early on that exciting day. I wanted to hear her calling my dad “Davey” and watch her while she brought him coffee.
I prayed, right then, for the day that Mom and Dad are together again. When that day comes, she’ll tilt her head up for a kiss as he steps into Glory and the joy that has been missing in his heart these past three years come Christmas day when she went away, will surge in like the tide as she leads him to meet Jesus face-to-face.
It’s a hard time of year. And it’s a glorious time of year. May it be, for you, a time of happy memories and an opportunity for new ones. Whether they’re on your tree or in your heart.
“‘Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?’ The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” 1 Corinthians 15:55-57
Merry Christmas, my friends.
Soli Deo Gloria
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