August Imgard was a twenty-one year old tailor living in Wooster in 1847, homesick for his homeland of Bavaria. He cut down an evergreen, decorated it and began the tradition of Christmas trees in our homes, initially deemed to be the first Christmas tree in the U.S. Alas for Imgard, historians have proved his tree was not the first, but still, in his honor, a large tree is decorated each year in front of his tombstone.
It’s not Imgard’s fault, but the Christmas tree and I have had a challenging relationship over the years. I have a memory of a not so blissful tree-cutting adventure with our two young sons, marked by weeping and gnashing of teeth. The year mom cut the top off the Christmas tree was epic too – duct tape works wonders. We’ve cut our own and gone artificial, survived a mouse and her nest in the tree storage tub, and battled valiantly with tangled strands of lights. While it’s a comforting companion when finished, the decorating process does not match with my skill set.
Still, I’m writing in the glow from our own (fake) tree. Despite much social pressure to do so before Thanksgiving, I’m enough of a holiday purist that I couldn’t crash through that barrier, even in 2020. So on a snowy December afternoon, with Michael Bublé and Frank Sinatra crooning in the background, the deed was completed.
I left off the traditional garland this year, but otherwise, the decorations remain an eclectic mix of colors, shapes, and memories. One day, not in COVID-fouled 2020, but perhaps next year, the lovely Madelyn Simone, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, and the sweet Emma Belle will join me to carefully unwrap the fragile ornaments. (We’ll give the charming Henry Kyle a pass, since he really likes to throw inanimate objects as far as he can – watch out, Shane Bieber). I’ll tell them of their fathers’ first Christmas, of the tree fashioned from green wagon-wheel macaroni (Dan), and the baby’s first Christmas bulbs that mark their birth. There’s Mitzi the German dachshund, a wooden Donald Duck puppet in honor of my husband’s great vocal talent, and a leg lamp, just because I love that movie! Our tree is filled with memories of days gone by, of ministry extended and received, of friends and family near and far. If I tell them the stories, perhaps when the time comes to send their grandmother’s boxes of decorations to the Goodwill, they’ll dig through the wrinkled tissue paper to find just the right ornament for their tree.
It seems morbid to think about my own demise while decorating the Christmas tree. But this is 2020, and little seems strange to us by now. Life under the shadow of the Corona virus has taken a toll on us, and I felt that specter powerfully this afternoon. Some have managed to escape the anxiety, stoically carrying on as though nothing has changed. Others have suffered great loss, in the death of a beloved or in personal illness with lasting physical effects. But for many others, we are now entering the tenth month of living somewhere between a low-level anxiety and a terror of heart. With numbers rising so rapidly, how can we not be changed by this?
And still, it is Advent. The people who have walked in darkness have seen a great light. Norman Vincent Peale, known for the power of positive thinking, said this: “Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.” I don’t believe in sorcerers or magic wands, but I do believe in the power of Christmas to heal and renew. As Placide Cappeau describes on a holy night, “A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.”
So even though my beloved grandchildren may not be able to safely nestle beneath our tree this year, I still put Donald Duck and the other unbreakable ornaments on the bottom, just in case. We’re muddling through somehow this week, but a star is still shining, even if it seems dimmed, and the highest bough awaits.
