Tom and Barb’s Christmas tree was awesome!
It stood a full fourteen feet tall under the
cathedral ceiling, the perfectly-shaped body donning a thousand white lights
that glowed with a subtle bluish hue like that of a crescent moon on a clear
winter’s night. Ornaments from odd parts
of Europe and generations long passed filled the spaces between the strings of
lights and hung from the branches even deep inside where the lights didn’t dare
to go. A sparse amount of
expertly-placed tinsel and just a few candy canes complemented the more
striking hand-made glass ornaments.
As a Christmas tree, stunning, glorious,
Hollywood-perfect!
As a metaphor for life, so desirable, representing a
blessed journey.
But, at least for me and Ann, unrealistic and
unattainable. So, too, for many others raising
special needs kids or caring for a mentally-ill loved one.
Our Christmas tree is much different. Always has been. Still blessed, but different.
For over thirty years, one of our six kids
picked out our Christmas tree. As a
family, we would pile into the minivan after lunch on Black Friday and drive to
one of the county’s few tree farms to cut down our perfect tree.
Some years the tree was tall and full. In other years, it was skinny with a lot of
space between its branches. Rachel would
often choose a “Dr. Seuss” tree, and David always picked one that wouldn’t fit in our living room. One
year, we harvested a ‘Hershey’s Kiss’ tree!
And since Ann did most of the decorating, she made sure it wasn’t a “pokey”
blue spruce—white pines or Douglas firs are her favorites.
This year, the last four of us still at home
went and found the ‘perfect’ tree. Ann
decorated it within a couple days, using far fewer lights and ornaments than in
years past, making sure the prominent bare spot faced the window.
Soon after, I turned off all the lights in the
living room except for the ones on the Christmas tree, and invited Ann to come
snuggle with me on the couch. We sat in
the dark for quite a while appreciating the glow of the tree, the quiet of the
house, and the warmth of each other’s company.
Then Ann spoke six simple words that I know came
from deep within her heart and reflected what she really thought of the more
than forty years of life we’ve spent together.
She said: “That tree's like our life. Crooked.”
I didn't say anything. Didn’t need to. I knew exactly what she meant. I just squeezed her hand, then pulled her a
little bit closer.
Yes, crooked. Not picture-perfect as some have and many wish,
but curving here and there as it stretched from floor to ceiling. Not necessarily ‘bad’, but definitely ‘crooked’...
Like our faith. Rooted deep in our parents’ religion, then choosing
one that we believe God called us to live out.
Like our parents. Shining examples of love and decades-long commitment,
but two passing much too early.
Like our marriage. Strong and bright and full, yet dark in spots.
Often the highest of joys and closeness,
but also the lowest of pain and strife, especially when mental illness showed
its ugly face.
Like our family. Five pre-borns forever absent from around our
table. Our oldest now with Jesus after
losing his fight with mental illness.
Like our friendships. Some deep and long-lasting, while others,
including those we cherish, faded as life sent us down different paths.
Like our health. Nearly sixty-year-old bodies forever bent
under the weight of life and love and work and sacrifice.
Like our finances. Sparse here and there, but never barren. Not a full storehouse, but always provisions
for today.
Like our calling. From investing in the lives of our kids as
they grew into their own, to ministering to others who, too, decorate a crooked
tree.
Crooked. And thin.
And bare in places. And lit with
just a few lights.
But uniquely ours, adorned with ornaments that represent
our special life…
A pink
and red candy cane built with a child’s plastic craft pieces.
A tiny
birdhouse from the workshop of the world’s greatest woodworker.
Berry-laden
mistletoe, made from the plaster casting of a grandchild’s small feet.
One hand-sewn,
three-inch square red pillow given to our oldest on his first Christmas Eve.
Five
miniature figurines—one for each child who never shared the fun of decorating.
An
unusual, dark blue Dr. Seuss-y star hanging off the side near the top. Just because.
We wonder at, celebrate, and give
thanks for our Crooked Tree Of Life.
You owe it to yourself to do
the same.
