I don’t have much history with Christmas trees.  I grew up loving my mother’s spectacularly lit trees, but since leaving home sixteen years ago (!!) the number of trees I’ve had could probably be counted on one hand.  The reasons varied by year: maybe I was a missionary in Belgium, maybe I was living in a tiny dorm room, or maybe I was a high-powered lawyer spending the holiday season locked in negotiations in a New York conference room.

All of that was supposed to end this year:  I left the high-powered job, bought a house in Seattle, and now have enough square footage and lofty ceilings to accommodate a whole forest!  Oh, but no:  Those ceilings are in the midst of being painted and all that square footage is draped in plastic and painter’s tape.  No room in the inn for a Christmas tree.

Or so I thought!  My dear parents heard the news and, as any good parents would do upon seeing their child about to make a terrible life decision, they intervened — no son of theirs was going to spend Christmas without a tree!

So they sent me a little potted European cypress tree with a string of lights, some snowflakes and a handful of felt angels.

It’s perfectly adorable and I love it.  The lights and colors and piny scent bring a touch of holiday cheer that I hadn’t quite realized was missing from my home.  When I look at it I think of why we celebrate this season:  Because we’re all loved children of parents who care enough to send us gifts (a tiny tree sent by earthly parents; a baby in a manger sent by heavenly ones) that they know will lift us up and help us be happy.

Merry Christmas!