For the Love of Christmas (4 page)

Visions of Tree Trimming Dance in Our Heads

By Marybeth Hicks

W
e're trying to get into the spirit of the season, but we repeat the mistake of planning idyllic experiences—which, of course, ruin the coming of Christmas. Case in point: trimming the tree. For years I tried to eliminate all potential reasons why tree trimming could become (how to put this?) an evening in the fires of hell.

Once, when our children were little, we created an idyllic afternoon in which we planned to explore the local Christmas tree farm, choose a majestic fir, spruce, or pine (who can tell, really?), and drive home with the perfect Christmas tree tied to the roof of our family van. All the while, we would sing carols in unison. (Or would harmony be more ideal?)

Don't be shocked, but it didn't turn out that way.

If I recall correctly, the temperature was something like fifteen degrees. I wrapped the children in so many layers that they couldn't move their arms and legs. Inexplicably, I dressed them in single pairs of flimsy cotton socks and inadequate snow boots (made of a substance not found in nature and unequal to the task of warming their feet).

“I'm cold,” a child griped seven seconds after we got out of the van and walked (or waddled, as the case may be) toward the wagon that would drop us in the forest.

“At least you have the good mittens. My hands are frozen,” another chimed in.

The complaining escalated.

“You always get the good mittens.”

“That's because you lost the other mittens.”

And then, one of the children said the wrong thing. “Why is this taking so long?”

Of course, it was taking so long because my husband was in search of the one and only evergreen with a straight tree trunk. For reasons beyond my comprehension, he operated under the misconception that there really is such a thing.

From that moment on, our ideal afternoon on the tree farm dwindled into an exercise in frozen futility. I worried that the baby was at risk for hypothermia, so I did what all wives do when we know we're running out of time and the demands of motherhood are about to collide head-on with the responsibilities of being a good spouse: I flattered my husband's taste in trees.

“Honey, you're right, that clearly is the tree that Joseph himself would have chosen had he not been so busy finding a stable for Mary. It's a ­winner.”

He tested my sincerity. “Are you sure?”

“Can we go now?” warbled a chilled cherub.

“Absolutely,” I assured. “It's the perfect tree.”

Yeah, right. You know what happened next because it has happened to you or someone you know. Even if you don't celebrate Christmas, you've probably experienced the equivalent in furniture assembly or wallpapering.

We got home and Jim cut the bottom so it would drink water from the tree stand (assuming we remembered to refill the stand with water). This was standard operating procedure, after all. But cutting the bottom caused the tree to list to one side, so naturally he cut a little more. And a little more. And more still.

Eventually, we stood in the family room next to a three-foot Christmas bush.

If memory serves me correctly, Jim and I had an argument. I fed the children a can of soup and some watery hot cocoa. He put the little ones to bed with a promise to trim the tree the next day; I left to purchase a professionally cut pine from the vendor on the vacant lot near the gas station.

Tears. Apologies. Forgiveness. Merry Christmas.

On December 26 a few years later, I bought a six-foot artificial blue spruce on clearance, put it in the storage room, and smugly planned the perfect family tree trimming experience for the following year. At least I would eliminate a needle-clogged vacuum cleaner and potential sap stains.

The six of us still believe that tree trimming is an idyllic experience despite annual tensions and conflict. And this year was no exception.

When we pulled out our trusty artificial tree, someone (no one pointed fingers) had tangled the lights so inextricably into the boughs of plastic and wire that the plug disappeared. While my husband and I tussled with the lights, the kids unwrapped—and broke—several glass Santas.

Tears. Apologies. Forgiveness. Merry Christmas.

For whatever reason, our collective imaginations still harbor a fantasy of family togetherness that's only possible in a Frank Capra movie. Then again, every year is somehow more idyllic than the last, even if we're writing the script ourselves.

Silent Night

By Carla Zwahlen

B
uying a Christmas tree,
I reminded myself,
was not going to get any easier no matter how long I procrastinated.
I lost track of how many times I'd passed the tree lot without stopping. I could not miss the display. It stood next to the post office where I picked up my mail every day.

Six months ago, cancer stole my beautiful husband from me. As the cutting edge of loss clipped the threads that bound me to Werner, I isolated one of loss's blatant characteristics: Firsts. Doing things for the first time without Werner.

As the minutes ticked away, these Firsts automatically laced themselves throughout my everyday steps. Even though some were easier than others to get through, I felt the jagged-edged hole that Werner's death left in my life. Even the smallest things he did for me, the ones I took for granted, became a confrontation with loss.

Buying the Christmas tree was especially difficult; I feared the emotional encounter awaiting me at the tree lot. I worried and argued with myself, until a quiet voice in my head reminded me, Christmas Eve is nearly here. The thought of telling my family there would be no tree this year bothered me.

By itself, the evergreen was not special. But enveloping it was a thirty-three-year-old Swiss tradition that Werner and his sons, Stefan and Jurg, carried out—a ritual they anticipated. In all those years, I had never selected or bought the tree.

I drove to the lot.

I took a deep breath, stepped out of my car, and walked between the rows of balsam and spruce. The heavy, woodsy aroma caught me and lifted me to another time and another row of trees years earlier, when Stefan was only three.

Stefan had insisted on carrying the big shovel and struggled to hold the fat handle in his hands. He dragged it through tall field grass and into the forest. Every few steps, the shovel slipped from his tiny grasp and slid to the ground. He stopped, picked it up, and marched on toward his important mission—choosing a little balsam for his dad.

Stefan examined each tree, while I told him about the Christmases of Werner's childhood in Switzerland. “Santa Claus does not visit the Swiss children's homes.” Stefan frowned at the thought. “However, a week before Christmas, on Saint Nicholas day, the Swiss children receive chocolate and special cookies to eat. They save Christmas Eve just for the celebration of Jesus's birth.” Stefan's face brightened.

I told him how his dad's family visited the forest to find their tree. When Christmas Eve arrived, they placed the little balsam in their living room and decorated it with oranges and homemade ornaments. They clipped candle holders onto the branch tips and placed short tapers into each one.

“After dinner they sang carols,” I told Stephan, “and each person helped light the candles. Once all the candles burned bright, they sang ‘Stille Nacht.' It reminded them that Jesus is the true light and savior in a dark world.”

Stefan chose a three-foot balsam while he listened to my story. With help from me, he dug into the dirt and wrested the tree from the ground. We nestled the root-ball into the black nursery pot I carried. At home, we hid the tree behind the woodshed and hoped it remained a secret until Christmas Eve.

The day before Christmas, we waited until Werner went to work and, like two jolly conspirators, we decorated the tree. We looped red and white paper chains around the needles, hung the little white candles on the branch tips, and hid the tree again. Stefan worked hard to contain his excitement while he waited to present his dad with a “Swiss Christmas tree.”

That evening, Stefan and I slipped from the house and gathered the tree we had decorated in the colors of Switzerland. We placed it on the big granite step outside the front door, lit the candles—and hoped the wind did not snuff them out.

Candlelight danced against the darkness and illuminated the big smile on Stefan's face. We pounded on the door and shouted, “Merry Christmas!”

Werner opened the door and gaped at the two of us standing there. When his eyes rested on the candlelit tree, a smile spread across his face and reached far into that holy Christmas night.

Every year after our first “Swiss Christmas Eve,” Werner, Stefan, and Jurg carried a tree from the forest and set it in our big solar greenhouse. On Christmas Eve, family and friends gathered for a special dinner and carols while we lit candles on the tree. Candlelight danced up and down the long windows and spread across each smiling face. For a moment, when all the candles burned, the room hushed. And then the caroling began.

When the last strains of “O Tannenbaum” faded, Werner's clear baritone lifted up the notes of “Stille Nacht,” his gift to us.

But now Werner was gone and I had to accomplish my task alone.

After some consideration, I chose a fat balsam.
How will I ever lift this tree onto my car roof?
I ­worried.

I hardly finished the thought when the owner of the tree lot approached. “You are not going to put this tree on your car. I will call my husband to have him deliver it to your house.”

It was a small town. People knew.

“Thank you,” I said aloud, even as I sent a silent thanks to God for sheltering me from the experience of carrying the tree home alone.

Christmas Eve arrived with the tree in its place. Family and friends gathered for a special dinner. Later we sang as we lit the candles. We rejoiced and remembered the first still and holy night, when God sent his only Son to be our light in this dark world. The birth of Jesus centered us on our first Christmas celebration without Werner.

Candlelight flickered against glass and spread its glow across the faces of family and friends. The room hushed, but no one sang “Stille Nacht.” Instead, we stood for a moment of silence, each person not ready yet for that First.

Perhaps next year . . .

The Too-Tall Tree

By Peggy Frezon

D
aylight was fading as we pulled into the Christmas tree lot.
Maybe it's closed,
I thought hopefully. But festive white bulbs strung across the entrance were still lit.

Usually, I couldn't wait to get our tree and decorate it with Mike and the kids. I loved the big old-fashioned lights, the hand-me-down glass ornaments, and the sparkling silver tinsel we hung one strand at a time. At night, we turned off all the lights in the house and sat around the tree, mesmerized by its twinkling colors. Even Kate, eighteen, and Andy, fourteen, weren't too old to enjoy the spirit of this simple holiday tradition.

But this year, the cherished ritual didn't seem so simple. It wasn't that I didn't want a tree. It was just, well—the size. My husband insisted a proper Christmas tree must at least skim the ceiling. Our snug, older house was far from large, but the ceilings were more than ten feet high. And a ten-foot pine tended to get pretty bushy, with branches that could easily take over an entire living room.

“Maybe we could try a smaller tree this year,” I suggested as everyone tumbled out of the van. I envisioned a simple little evergreen on a table in the corner.

A man with tan coveralls and thick boots approached.

“Could you point us toward the Fraser firs?” Mike asked and added, “The big ones?” My heart sank.

We followed the man to a row of fragrant firs leaning against a rough wooden frame. “Here's a real big one.” He grasped a tree with his heavy gloves. Mike stretched his arm high to gauge the height and smiled.

“It looks a little, uh, tall.” I tried desperately to point everyone toward the more reasonably sized pines in front. But before I knew it, they were admiring a tree with that look on their faces.

I gazed up and up—and up. “Wait! It's too tall!”

The kids' rosy faces beamed. Mike glowed with satisfaction. The coveralled man waited ­expectantly.

Feeling like Scrooge, I sighed and thought of the stack of greeting cards to sign, the cookies to bake, the errands to run. Wouldn't trimming twice the tree take twice the time? Still, my family wanted this tree. I didn't have the heart to cause a fuss.

At home, Mike dragged the fir through the back door, and I gasped as branches compressed and squeezed through the slender frame.
Oh no! Where could we put this giant ­redwood?

In the past, we had tried various locations for oversized trees, but bushy greenery was always in the way.

“I could rearrange the furniture,” Mike offered. He moved a chair onto the porch and dragged the couch, loveseat, and coffee table against the far wall. I scowled at the inconvenience Mike's tree was causing. This was not the simple Christmas I wanted.

Mike tugged the enormous fir into the newly freed corner. It looked like we were on the
Titanic
and all the furniture had slid to one end.

The mood was as icy as the frigid winter weather outside. I felt anything but jolly and bright. I pouted like a child who had found coal in her stocking. Angry words were on the tip of my tongue:
I told you so. I told you not to get a big tree. I told you it wouldn't fit!
But I stopped myself.

The kids had long since scattered. And Mike—Mike looked like a man who was trying to provide his family with a memorable Christmas in the best way he knew. I read the disappointment in his eyes.

I knew without a doubt that what happened next was totally in my control. I could react in anger and spew out those hateful words—I told you so—or I could ignore the minor inconveniences and rejoice in the grandeur of the grand fir. I took a deep breath and surveyed the space again.

It's not important enough to ruin Christmas,
I decided. I felt the tenseness in my muscles relax. “How about if we try it over there?” I pointed.

“It will be in the way,” Mike warned softly.

I nodded. “That's okay.”

“We'll have to shove the dining table up against the wall.”

I was silent for a moment. “I can live with that.”

When all the pushing and pulling was done, our eleven-foot tree stood in the back of the dining room, branches jutting out crazily every which way. Although it took up half the room, the tree was elegant and beautifully proportioned. Its piney scent smelled like Christmas.

It took us all night and fifteen strings of big ­old-fashioned bulbs to fill the tree. Hundreds of special ornaments adorned the boughs. Mike placed the old cloth angel at the top. She gazed down, reminding me of a central focus I had forgotten. How silly of me to have overlooked the more important meaning of Christmas.

That night, the whole family snuggled in the dark, admiring colorful lights, hand-blown glass ornaments, and glittery tinsel. It didn't matter that the furniture was cramped to one side or that we constantly banged our heads on the dangling chandelier that used to be isolated by the placement of the dining table.

We had our tree and—big or small, tucked out of the way or inconveniently placed—it just didn't matter. Our family tradition lived on. Christmas hadn't been simple, but it was simply perfect.