I have a Christmas tree . . . well, to be more precise, I have seven. There’s the one in my daughter’s room that is all silver and white with ornaments we’ve had ever since we decided she needed her own tree. There’s the one in my son’s room that at one time belonged to his uncle—so many years ago, in fact, that the price of $18.88 is written on the box from Rexall Drug Store. It’s an aluminum tree that stands about five feet tall. There there’s the Disney tree in the living room (bet you can’t guess what’s on it), the old fashioned tree in the library with bubble lights, pine cones and hand-crocheted snowflakes, hats, and bells, and the one in the dining room that has antique Christmas post cards gently tucked in its branches. Oh, and the flocked one in the guest bedroom that has little Ginger Cottages scattered about its snowy branches. You can google Ginger Cottages if you want to know what they are.

If you’ve been keeping count, that should be six. That’s because I left my favorite tree until last. Ever year it occupies the widest part of the step from the kitchen to the den; being 8.5 feet tall, that’s about the only spot in the house it can occupy and not go topless. We bought it a hundred years ago when it was ten feet tall from a florist who didn’t realize it wouldn’t fit in her shop when she ordered it—meaning we got a bargain. At that time we lived in a house with a two story foyer, so the tree fit perfectly and we could place the angel on top by climbing the stairs and reaching through the banister. A change of residence required removing the bottom layer of branches, cutting it down to a more manageable size.

It’s a wonderful tree, the kind you can’t buy anymore. The branches are spaced far apart, leaving room to decorate all the way to the center, and goodness knows, I need every inch of every branch. You see, this is the tree that took years to create, the tree that evolves with the constant addition of ornaments. Nestled within its branches are the ones my children made while in school, those given to me by my Wednesday night kindergarten class kids from church, the ones we’ve received from friends and family through the years, including some turquoise ones that graced my family’s tree when I was growing up. There are the ones I used to decorate the tree I gave my grandmother years ago, the tree my mother said she wouldn’t like, the tree that she refused to allow to be packed away each year because that would mean the ornaments would not be exactly where I had placed them at the giving. There are the plastic canvas snowflakes that my husband’s grandmother made for us. She gave us a dozen, so when my children married and started their own trees, I let them come and take from ours whatever they wanted that had meaning—and some of her snowflakes were among the first ornaments chosen by each. And yes, the silver snowflakes bearing the names of my parents and their dates of birth and death are also there, along with the ones I made in college because we needed a tree in our room and didn’t think we could afford the ornaments for it. We probably spent more on the stuff to make them than we would have had we just bought some. But they would not have meant nearly as much.

This is a tree with meaning, filled with memories that spread across decades. Each ornament holds a story that connects me to people who were a significant part of my life, many of whom are no longer here. And every year, as I unpack the boxes and choose just the right spot to hang them, I am allowed to remember.

Memory is a wonderful thing, but in the words of that great fictional detective, Adrian Monk, it’s a blessing . . . and a curse. Memories can be so painful when they center upon someone that is no longer present in our lives, but what would we do without them? The joy of life would be lost forever the moment it passed, never to be recalled, never to be relived. And those who have been such a part of us would truly disappear when Death claimed them. As difficult as it may be, as overwhelming as the pain can become, I will endure it all as long as I can close my eyes and see their faces . . . as long as I can remember. This Christmas may we be thankful for that gift; may we be warmed by our memories and the people who dwell within them.

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