One of my favorite parts of Christmas is visiting the homes of others and looking at their Christmas trees. There are so many approaches to the same old tradition.
These days, most folks have one of the handful of variations on the artificial tree. It’s hard to pass up because of the ease of setting up, lighting up, cleaning up, and boxing up for storage until next year. In an ever increasing season of busyness, having one less thing that needs to be done take much time is a gift itself.
Very few seem to opt for the hassle of the “real” Christmas tree anymore. Buying, or cutting it, hauling it in and keeping it well watered every day, cleaning up any needles that fall. Stringing lights instead of having the luxury of the pre-strung artificial tree. Few people opt for the hassle of the “real” tree, but oh is it worth it. The fragrance produced by a real tree simply cannot be replicated by a holiday scented candle or a Scentsy insert.
In more recent years, for the truly bold — you know, the overachievers who used to ruin the grading curve for the rest of us in school — the trend has been toward expanding the Christmas tree into a sort of Christmas forest by employing multiple trees throughout the house, each with their own decorating theme. Somehow I think the trend of having multiple live trees in the house is one not even the most extra among us will ever seek to implement.
Just so you know, I’m not hating on or judging any of these approaches. Though I have my personal preferences for Christmas, as a recovered Scrooge, I am now “all in” and celebrate the fact that people are celebrating. In a world that often falls under the cold shadow of darkness and grief and fear, I rejoice in all efforts to light up the darkness and fill the void with peace, and hope, and joy, and love.
The tradition in itself is a bit of an oddity if you aren’t born into it: take a tree and put it up in your living room, cover it in lights and mismatched ornaments and place gifts underneath. We don’t think anything of it because we were born into a culture where this practice was deeply rooted, but it wasn’t always this way. The Christmas tree tradition originates from 16th-century Germany, where Christians decorated evergreen trees with roses made of colored paper, apples, nuts, and candles, employing Christian symbolism, notably the "Paradise tree" from Adam & Eve's day. As the decades became centuries, little tweaks and additions found their way into the Christmas tree lore — like when the Moravians added candles, which eventually gave way to electric lights, or the angel Gabriel was placed at the top or perhaps a star of Bethlehem — most influenced by the Christian faith and biblical story.
On Christmas night, I sat in a room full of noisy chaos with my most immediate family and found a moment of stillness in looking at the ornaments decorating my mother’s tree. I’ve seen this tree evolve over the course of fifty years, and this current iteration is not likely to be its final form. My mother never had an aesthetic she was going for. Her tree, like her mother’s before her, and ours when our children were still in our home, was family themed. Each of our three generations (my Big Mama, my mother, and my wife) treated the tree like a canvas upon which we told the story of our family history; perhaps more artifacts than ornaments. There were ornaments given to us when our homes began and we needed something, anything, to put upon the tree. There were countless ornaments made by children over the years, relics from places we’d visited, fancy and expensive ornaments hung alongside heirlooms and those that were handmade and priceless.
Sitting in the living room last night, watching the tiny colored lights twinkle — or better yet “shimmer” as the preset option was labeled — I thought of the Christmas Eve service I’d attended not twenty-four hours earlier. I sat in a picturesque chapel completely foreign to me and surrounded by total strangers. That disconnect in familiarity always heightens my temptation to “people watch” — by which we more accurately mean “people judge” — allow my own imagination to fill in the blanks about who they are and how they are. I couldn’t help but see us all like so many Christmas trees, each of us decorated distinctively, and our lights shining uniquely. Some were decorated ornately in beautiful colors, patterns, and materials, while others were very plain and simple.
It was appropriate that one of the songs in the service was “I Wonder As I Wander” because that is what I tend to do when I am alone. My mind begins to wander and cannot help but wonder about the stories of the lives of those around me and the journey that led them here and where it is taking them next. The room was filled with mismatched people and purposes. Some appeared to be there out of obligation, Christmas Eve services clearly being an important part of the season for their mother or wife or family at large, and in the spirit of the season they were begrudgingly complying. Others seemed to be there in an attempt to create tradition for their own young ones, or perhaps as a sort of seance to connect with long lost loved ones who instilled the tradition in them. For some the impression was one of obligation, while for others there was an obvious reverent offering, a gift brought to the King. I suppose it’s appropriate for the season, considering the event at the heart of it was attended by a collection of a poor young couple, peasant dressed shepherds straight out of the pasture, and foreign men of extreme wealth, prestige and couture, all come together for the same purpose.
Two people stood out to me above all others. One was the very stylishly dressed woman accompanied by the clearly disinterested man. For most of the service she sat observantly behind designer sunglasses, but as the service continued on, I couldn’t help but notice something slowly changing. At first it was the removal of the sunglasses, then she started picking up the hymnal and prayer book, and though I was sitting several pews behind, there was a noticeable change in her posture, a visible humility that began to take over as her guard was being let down. When time came for the communion, she — though not her companion — waited, seemingly hesitantly, then stood, made her way to the altar and took the bread and wine with dozens of others. When she returned to her pew I was able to see her face. As someone who has stood before thousands upon thousands of people in church services like this for nearly thirty years, I recognized the look on her face. Surrender. She entered the sanctuary one way, but she would be leaving it changed. Perhaps it was the music, the prayers, the candles, the incense, the flowers and evergreens, the scriptures, the setting, or maybe just all of it combined — regardless, the door of a heart was reluctantly or cautiously being opened and an invitation to the dinner table was accepted. You simply cannot sit at the table with Jesus and not be changed. Changed by the invitation itself, being welcomed by such an esteemed one, being served and fed and surrounded by so many others who walked through the same door. I couldn’t help but notice she spent the rest of the service kneeling on the mourners bench with her head bowed in silent prayer. I will likely never see this woman again, but I’m fairly certain I witnessed the trajectory of her life changing, a course correction back toward home. Perhaps this journey of her life — which is now in its prime — will find its way to the same end as the very old man sitting directly across the aisle to her left.
He came in just as the service was beginning, practically late, but at his age you are never considered late. Everyone is just happy you are able to be there at all. His appearance so late was like that of a guest of honor. Not like one who was late, but like one they were waiting to arrive before they began. His arrival took a great deal of assistance — what I can only assume was a daughter, and son-in-law, and a wife. He was bent nearly at a ninety degree angle, clutching a cane as if it were a lifeline. Slowly he shuffled his way to an ancient pew, which I can testify is not remotely comfortable, and two sets of loving and patient hands on each arm, guided him as he sat. My mind wandered to imagine him at home struggling — likely being assisted — to get dressed for the evening. Painstakingly making his way to the car, enduring the difficulty of getting in and then out again, only to have to ascend a handicap accessible ramp that surely looked like Mt. Everest from his perspective. Finally, at long last, he was able to “rest” in the pew for the next hour and a half. Did I mention, this service didn’t even begin until 11:00 PM? The old man spent the entire service in an involuntary prayer posture, face staring straight at the floor like the publican opposite the Pharisee in the parable. The mere sight of him humbled me.
Did he want to be here so desperately because his heart was whispering this might be his last opportunity? How many times, how many years, had he come to this place on this night? As a young man looking forward at a burgeoning life, did he once see a seemingly endless stream of Christmas Eve services — first with just his young wife, then with children, and eventually with grandchildren? As a very old man, had he now realized that the stream was endless, but he had been floating down that stream of time and now he could see it emptying into the gulf of eternity? I had a hard time looking at him without being overcome with emotion. I couldn’t help but reflect on myself. Would I have such devotion, such insistence, if I were to reach his age? I thought I wanted to be there, but this man wanted to be there in a way my ever fleeting youth cannot yet comprehend. The money I put in the collection plate seemed like a child tossing in a dollar his father had given him in comparison to this man’s presence being laid down tonight as an offering.
As the woman returned to her pew from the communion table, the pastor came down to the old man and brought the communion table to him. It would have been physically impossible for him to ascend to the altar for communion, so the body and the blood came to him where he was, as he was. I watched and I wept and I heard the message that was spoken without words. Christmas is a time to remember that God — in the person of Jesus — invites us all to sit at His table, and for those who cannot come, regardless of why, He will come to you wherever you are.
Tonight, looking at the tree in our living room, I couldn’t help but see each of us like so many types of Christmas trees. Some brightly adorned in colorful twinkling lights that demand to be seen, others in simple white light that shines continuously in ways that cannot be ignored. Some are for the time, plastic, artificial, convenient, but beautiful nonetheless, while others are evergreen, fragrant, and increasingly rare.
Eventually I came to realize, we aren’t different trees, but more like mismatched ornaments on a single living tree whose branches are ever expanding. We come from different places and for different reasons, with different stories; we all have our own traditions and approaches, but we are all here, and above us is the bright star in the heavens that is shining down on us all, lighting the way.
Comments
Post a Comment