The shadow of Christmas

The shadow of Christmas hangs heavy in my home. The soft glow radiates beauty from the branches of the tree. Like a million stars in the heavens, the intensity of majestic glory shines from the tree. I see the tiny treasures hanging from the bows; each carrying a story of their past. It is a collection of my life, on this tree. Tiny footprints, turned ornament to capture a time gone by too fast. A snowman in a hot air balloon from my childhood tree, holds on to the legacy of a family broken early on. Intricately fashioned pieces from around the world, carefully brought to my home by my husband’s parents of places I may never go. The memorial ornament, carved in glass, of my mother’s birth and death. This year, 4 new ornaments became mine: A moose glass, a funny memory of my childhood of watching National Lampoons Christmas Vacation; a sparkling nativity scene, from Kemah, the place I was for my father’s memorial; a cowboy boot, that will become the memorial ornament for my father; and a carved nativity, simple and fascinating, adorning my tree with the true meaning of Christmas.

It glows in the darkness of my home. I feel its warmth in the very core of my soul. I breathe in the legacy of the tree. Many stories rise up about the tree on Christmas. Christians have scorned the presence of the tree as pagan. I cannot buy into such a fallacy, as the tree is but a creation of the living God and the ornaments a pop-up book of memories for my family. Christmas traditions and celebrations are but an adoration of the coming of the Savior; Emmanuel. In fact, advent is exactly that: the arrival of something important or awaited. Of course there are many pagan holidays and traditions that surround the Christmas season, but that is to be expected, since Satan himself has tried to destroy the very life of our Savior. The tradition is what is created in the heart of man, as a reflection of what is inside. If pride and selfishness is what motivates a tradition, then it can become pagan. However, if love and family and joy and remembrance of our Savior is at the heart of what motivates a tradition, it is hard pressed to call it pagan. So many traditions and celebrations were practiced by the Jews to remember something that the Lord did for them, so they would not forget. The Christmas tree, standing in my living room, is such a memorial. A reminder of times filled with love and family. A time when, even though brokenness ruled my childhood home, the tree brought us together with love and laughter, if only for a moment.

I am reminded of the time when we had no money to buy a tree. I had a 2 foot artificial tree in my collection of decorations and knew this would be all we would have. With three small children, my husband and I carefully crafted the story of our Savior around the humble little tree. Sharing the story of a king who was born in a barn, not a palace; and how we need to be thankful for what we have, no matter how little of a package it comes in. I had planned to have several home parties at my house to earn enough credits to get free things to give as gifts to my family. During one of those parties, a woman I had recently met, inquired of our tiny tree. I shared the story of Christmas and how we were thankful for even the humblest of trees. The next day, my doorbell rang. I opened the door to an intrusion of pine. In came the green beauty, propped up in the corner of my home, lingering a scent of Christmas wonder that was rooted in the heart of love. We decorated that tree with more delight than I we had ever experienced before. Lights adorned the branches, lighting up the bows of majestic splendor. Ornaments carefully placed, the topper given its place of honor on the highest point of the tree. It is only a tree, but it holds in its presence the exquisite grandeur of grace and love.

It is 3 days after Christmas, yet my heart is not ready to let it go. I am not ready to leave the celebration behind me. I want to rest in the legacy of this time of year. I want to relish in the sights and sounds the season has to offer. The house looks so full and stately with all the decorations around. The pine and lights and flowers and candles and nativities frame the walls of my house. Cards sent to me from family and friends are greeting cards of life that share a story of health and prosperity. I do not want to pack up my treasures hanging from the tree and take down the lights that gently glow in the night. I do not want to end the season that brings such joy to my depths. I look at the tree and wonder at its origin. The legends that surround its birth at Christmas are fascinating and intriguing:

 Legends of the Christmas Tree:

Many legends exist about the origin of the Christmas tree. One is the story of Saint Boniface, an English monk who organized the Christian Church in France and Germany. One day, as he traveled about, he came upon a group of pagans gathered around a great oak tree about to sacrifice a child to the god Thor. To stop the sacrifice and save the child's life Boniface felled the tree with one mighty blow of his fist. In its place grew a small fir tree. The saint told the pagan worshipers that the tiny fir was the Tree of Life and stood the eternal life of Christ.

Another legend holds that Martin Luther, a founder of the Protestant faith, was walking through the forest one Christmas Eve. As he walked he was awed by the beauty of millions of stars glimmering through the branches of the evergreen trees. So taken was he by this beautiful sight that he cut a small tree and took it home to his family. To recreate that same starlight beauty he saw in the wood, he placed candles on all its branches.

Yet another legend tells of a poor woodsman who long ago met a lost and hungry child on Christmas Eve. Though very poor himself, the woodsman gave the child food and shelter for the night. The woodsman woke the next morning to find a beautiful glittering tree outside his door. The hungry child was really the Christ Child in disguise. He created the tree to reward the good man for his charity.

 Each legend, capturing humility, love, beauty. A promise of what is to come.

 My tree stands majestically tall, touching the ceiling. It captures the memories of a time when we had nothing, when we had plenty. It tells the story of a family, building memories that shape the human spirit, and define a heart. With each passing year, my tree will be a symbol of hope and joy; a reminder of love and legacy. Something my children will pass on to their children. The light of day begins to break and the glow of my tree burns bright. It quietly sings a song and I hear it in my ear:

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree!
Thy leaves are so unchanging
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Thy leaves are so unchanging

Not only green when summer's here,
But also when it's cold and drear.
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Thy leaves are so unchanging!

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Such pleasure do you bring me!
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Such pleasure do you bring me!

For every year the Christmas tree,
Brings to us all both joy and glee.
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Such pleasure do you bring me!

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
You'll never be unchanging!
A symbol of goodwill and love
You'll ever be unchanging

Each shining light
Each silver bell
No one alive spreads cheer so well

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
You'll ever be unchanging

 

 

 

THE DANCER

The music moves me.

Moves me to push my body in ways I do not normally move. I become one with the notes that dance across the page. Explosive emotion erupts like a volcano and I dance…

I move. I flow with flawless perfection. Only me and Lord see. No one else. In His eyes, there is nothing more beautiful. There is nothing more pure. I express my heart in a way that only He has seen. Not even my husband has seen me dance this way.

The music twists and turns with passion and my soul follows. My arms cut through the air with fluid rhythm and I am floating.

Tears stream from my eyes and I know my Savior is dancing with me. He writes the music on my heart. And I, I dance.

The music moves me.

It transfigures my DNA. It expends me. Sweat drips from my brow and muscles ache with delight. I move. I stir with aggravated intention. Pushing this broken body to the edge. Open, there is no limit to my expression.

The music drives the fervor inside of me. My legs twirl like a ballerina, but I reflect nothing of the sort. Yet I feel like I am on Broadway, dancing to perfection.

I am moved.

 Moved to go the distance; to stay the course. It breaks my sorrow, it tackles my pain. The movement gives way to freedom; and I cannot deny its call. Like water cleansing he soul, it washes over me and saturates my being.

Dancing…

I move to the music and it moves me.