The Christmas Tree

Tonight, as I've been decorating our tree, I was reminded of something I wrote a few years back on a similar, sentimental night. I thought I'd revive it. So many memories hang on that tree!


I thought about buying a star for the top of the tree this year. I even looked at them. And then I came home empty-handed. Now, as I decorate this tree of ours for the twenty-fifth year in a row, I reflect upon that moment when I chose our cardboard cutout star covered in layers of foil with a hole not quite centered in the middle through which we poke a white light.

I wonder whose hands fashioned that misshapen star.

I’ve often thought our tree looked provincial. Homemade. Thrown-together. I’ve seen other trees–almost all other trees in fact. Perfect in symmetry, perfect in decor. Light dancing on their perfectly spaced glass balls. They’re beautiful!

And then there’s our tree, hung with candy canes and not long enough popcorn strands. A cherished collection of cross-stitched Santas and angels and little toy soldiers–yearly gifts from a grandmother, now gone. Tiny sleds made one year for my two now grown-up and living on their own girls. Broken dried salt water clay framing another daughter’s much younger face. Wooden cut-outs markered and crayoned with bright Christmas colors. Construction paper circles with waded red tissue paper stuck around another school photo; on the back, the inscription: “To Mom and Dad, I love you.” Green and red bead wreaths. Hand prints.

It’s a good thing everyone is gone while I decorate the tree this morning. I can hear their voices insisting those ornaments be thrown away, replaced by pretty ones. Perhaps they are embarrassed by the evidence of their ineptness, but I see only those tiny hands and loving hearts as they made their gifts for me.

I hang the candy canes and smile. Three boxes. They’ll need replenished soon. Even the ones hung high are not safe; it’s only a small stretch for my children these days, and they will also disappear.

There now. It is finished. I step back and look, knowing this is as good as it will get. My carefully spaced ornaments will shift and move as the weeks go by. Even now, little Andrew is admiring the tree–soon his hands will be rearranging things. I pause to admire this work of cherished memories one more time, wiping away a few stray tears. I love our tree!