We decorated the Christmas tree the Sunday after
Thanksgiving this year.
“It seems too early,” my husband complained.
“Christmas decorations are up everywhere else, and we’re
behind, ” my 14-year-old countered.
“This is the only day that the whole family will be here
until Christmas,” I said, as I realized that in a few hours my son would be
heading back to college after his brief Thanksgiving break. “It’s going up
today.”
Settled.
I don’t know how others decorate their Christmas trees. We are great collectors of ornaments, both
humble and grand. Nearly each one prompts a story that is retold every year,
with titles like “The Origin of the Enormous Fake Dragonflies” or “Why We Won’t
Toss the ‘Sputnik’ Ornaments Dad Made in Third Grade”.
My son and daughter aren’t little any more. They space the
ornaments nicely instead of clumping them all in one place, a foot from the
bottom branches. Every year their questions
are more sophisticated, and they hear the stories in new ways. And so do I.
Don’t tell my kids, but putting up the Christmas tree is a
rich, spiritual, and deeply powerful Advent ritual in my family. We connect
ourselves to a long, complex narrative that blends family story and esoteric
symbol; we construct a place where past meets future. As we navigate this
overcrowded tree, we reluctantly separate out some things that are too damaged
to keep or that have lost their meaning. And we keep some things for
inexplicable reasons best called “mystery”. For example, the beakless, blue chicken made the cut again this year. “I like it, don’t throw it out,” someone declares. And it stays.
The lights go on, and we thrill at it. Over the next four
weeks this tree will draw me. I will play with the arrangement, regularly
moving ornaments around to fill empty spaces. I will sit in a tree-lit room and
contemplate. I will remember. I will think ahead.
To be sure, our family has other rituals that are more
specific to this pre-Christmas season. Each night we put symbols on a little
Jesse tree -- origami decorations that
tell the story of Salvation History and count down the days till the Christ
arrives. On Sundays we light our Advent wreath and sing O Come O Come Emmanuel.
But the Christmas Tree itself does the holiday on its own
terms. With its pagan past and decorations that are more reminiscent of family
vacations than of the Holy Family, my tree doesn’t exactly foretell a baby born
in a manger stall. In its glorious ambiguity it layers the many narratives of
this time of year. It makes room for all
of it in its bendy, manufactured branches. And each year there is still space
for more.
In his book, The
Legend of the Bells and other Tales, John Shea retells a Cherokee story,
“Why Some Trees are Evergreen.” After
the Great Mystery makes the plants and trees, he wants to give a gift to each
according to its ability. So he set up a test, challenging them to stay awake
and keep watch over the whole earth for a week. Most of the trees nod off by
day three, but the cedar, pine, spruce, and fir and their kin are still vigilant
when the Great Mystery returns at week’s end. Their reward is to remain green forever, so
that even in the deadness of winter, animals could find warmth and sustenance
in their branches.
Tell stories. Ask questions of the symbols. Hold the past in
your hands. Find time. Make room. Stay awake until the Great Mystery returns.
These are the subtle, Advent invitations of the Christmas tree. I’m not sure I’d be ready for Christmas Day
without them.
- Barb Ballenger
Your turn! What stories does your Christmas tree tell? Let us know in the comments.
Your turn! What stories does your Christmas tree tell? Let us know in the comments.
