Nov
30
2017
Pondering The Christmas Tree
Posted in Christmas 4 Comments
The house is decorated for Christmas.
It has been our tradition to do our decorating the day after Thanksgiving.
Initially, I chose that day as a sort of protest.
I refused to go shopping on what has notoriously been called, Black Friday.
I chose the day when retailers hoped their sales figures would be in the black.
I chose that day to get the boxes out of the attic and go to work.
Everyone had a job, from the oldest to the youngest.
Many hands made for light work and a lot of fun.
My husband and our two sons hung the lights outside.
My three daughters and I took care of the inside.
In a matter of hours, the entire house was done.
Even the candle in the kitchen was changed to a more Christmas-y scent.
Sprigs of holly and greenery were hung over each door.
Candles were placed in every window.
Stockings were hung on the mantle.
My manger, from when I was a girl, was set up near the Christmas tree.
My youngest son took the job of setting up the manger upon himself.
He took that job very seriously.
He arranged the shepherd and the animals in unique ways each year.
He had the Wise Men coming from the east, sometimes close to the manger, sometimes far.
Each year, the unveiling of familiar decorations brings us so much joy.
Boxes that we bring down year after year still seem to surprise us.
We know what is inside each one, yet somehow it is always brand new.
We know what we will find there but it always creates a new response in our heart.
I listened as my now grown children hung the ornaments on the tree.
I heard their voices.
I heard their sounds of laughter.
I heard them share memories that are special to them.
Ornaments that were made in preschool are still intact.
Each one tells a story.
Some ornaments get placed front and center.
Some ornaments are further back on the tree.
The tree tells the story of our family.
The tree reflects many Christmases as we have shared our lives along this journey.
I never realized how much the tree tells our story.
Bits of each of us are on that tree.
I grew up with an artificial Christmas tree.
I could not wait to have a live tree when my husband and I were married.
I loved the smell of the pine needles.
I loved the way the ornaments hung just right.
As my children grew, there were years we cut down our own tree.
It became a tradition my husband shared with the older ones while I stayed home with the baby.
It was always a delight to see the tree as they brought it inside.
It was always so special to see the tree in our living room waiting to be decorated.
A few years ago, we bought an artificial tree that truly looks real.
With our children grown, getting the tree did not need to be the event.
Decorating the tree was the focus.
An artificial tree allowed us to put it up on the day we decorated the rest of the house.
The tree that used to only be up for a few weeks could now be up for an entire month.
I love siting in the living room, with only the lights of the tree as illumination.
I love looking at each ornament and remembering.
I love that it is our tree.
No matter the type, the tree tells a story.
The tree tells our story.
There is a Christmas tree and an Easter tree.
Each tells a story.
The wood tells the story, which Noah began,
Enclosed on the ark, shut in by God’s Hand.
It floated above the destruction below,
A dove, and a branch, and a promise rainbow.
The wood tells the story, which Abraham began,
The wood for the fire; God provided the lamb,
The wood on the shoulders of his precious son,
The ram in the thicket, a substitute one.
The wood tells the story of doorposts with stain,
Splattered with blood of a lamb that was slain,
The blood that would save as death passes by,
The joy of salvation while others would cry.
The wood tells the story of the One it contains,
The small baby Jesus, the Christ is His Name.
The wood of the manger, the cow’s feeding trough,
The Creator flails helpless; the wood was so rough.
The wood tells the story; the hill Calvary,
The wood of the cross where He died there for me.
The wood on the shoulders of God’s only Son.
The Lamb in my place, the substitute One.
The wood tells the story of the cross with my name.
Nailed there my sin, my guilt, and my shame.
The wood holds my Savior; the wood meant for me.
My Lord laid His life down, so I could be free.
(The Wood Tells The Story, Gina Gallagher June 2012)
In 2012, I wrote a poem.
I had been contemplating the wood of the tree and the cross.
Each type of wood told a story.
One type of wood held Him at His birth; the other type of wood held Him at His death.
Except the wood could not hold Him.
He outgrew the manger.
He rose victorious over His death on the cross.
The wood told His story, and if we are in Christ, the wood tells our story as well.
He Himself bore our sins in His body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by His wounds you have been healed. (1 Peter 2:24)
We are entwined with Him.
Our lives are wrapped up in His.
We are the ornaments on the new Tree.
We are the ones that hold fast to the Root of Jesse.
His story is our story if we are in Him.
Jesus is the reason we have a tree.
That tree means so much more than simply a place under which we put presents.
That tree is a symbol of Hope in Him.
The wood tells the Story.
Thank you Gina for this blog. While I also have fond memories when decorating I have never looked at the wood of the tree . Thank you for the new revelation.
Eilene,
It always warms my heart to think that something God laid on my heart blesses someone else. There is always much to ponder as we learn more about Him each day. Praise God that we never get to the bottom of our love or our knowledge of Him. Blessings, friend.
Gina
Beautiful blog and poem–your God-given writing talent continues to amaze and inspire me!
Thank you, Sue. I am delighted that you were blessed.
Gina