The Inspiration of a Christmas Tradition

Beautiful, isn't it? Our tree this year has surely been the finest of all. Annually our tree is lovingly chosen and miraculously transformed into a glorious spectacle of Christmas, shining brightly and adorned with colorful, sparkling, ornaments. An angel, a family keepsake so old I have no idea where it came from, is carefully placed on the top by one of the children while I hold him or her aloft amid the encouragement and applause of the rest of the family. Each and every Christmas tree has played host to the heartwarming scenario of family togetherness, generosity, and childhood wonder.

But that was last week. After its crescendo the tree is now only a sad portrait of former glory. The floor underneath stands naked except, perhaps, for some wrinkled covering at its feet, fallen tinsel, and discarded wrapping paper and ribbon. Once watered with loving care, now it sucks at whatever remaining moisture clings at the bottom of its stand. Sometimes we've left trees up through the New Year holiday to turn it on at night after everyone is home from the work we have dispiritedly resumed that week. Sometimes even this is forgotten and they've stood dark, alone, and somehow more barren throughout the night. Even if the tree is allowed to stay up for that week it is, in the end, little more than pathetic.

Today I felt an eerie chill as I walked past it. This may sound twisted, but it was as if it was watching me with a mixture of despair and resentment. I hear whispers in both pleading and hostile tones. "Why? Did I fail? Did I disappoint you?"

In it's brief life, it was only a little tree uprooted from its natural home and shuttled off to a distant and unfamiliar location where it waited unknowingly for someone to come take it home.

I've always felt kind of bad about having to discard these symbols. Eventually the day comes that they are denuded, lowered from their stand, and unceremoniously dragged out back where they brown until they rot, or to the street where they are trucked to the local dump and, if lucky, burned. It seems to me that these symbols of Christmas spirit, of festivity, of goodwill toward our fellow man deserve something better than this.


But then I remember the family angel once at the top of this and of each and every tree. I realize that she is also a symbol of hope as well as renewal. No, I can rest without guilt or remorse for surely the essence of each tree lives after it in her. She carries it's little arboreal soul within her angelic heart where it shines forth and makes each Christmas a little brighter than the last.