An Artificial Christmas

We put up our tree yesterday. I know that seems early, but I love Christmas so I don’t mind starting early. Besides, it’s an artificial tree so we don’t have to worry about the needles falling off.

We used to get real trees up until that fateful Christmas when Jeff said no more. The events that led up to that decision are not pleasant to recall, but they sure make for a great story (to those who weren’t there). I wrote about it in an article printed in the December 2003 issue of Forward in Christ magazine. I reprint it here to both entertain and warn you of the dangers of “An Artificial Christmas.”

I’ve always thought of myself as a real person, down to earth, what you see is what you get. I’m definitely turned off by artificiality. No silk flowers or plastic fruit for me. And I would never have considered putting up an artificial Christmas tree – at least not until five years ago.

What happened that December is not something I’m proud of. What should have been a simple trip to pick up the Christmas tree turned into a much-needed reality check.

It all began in August 1998 when my husband, our four kids, and I moved from a run-down starter home to a large modern home on the other side of town.

As we proudly showed off our new house, the question often came up: “Where are you going to put your Christmas tree?”

The previous owners, who happened to be close friends of ours, had the most awesome Christmas trees. Each year a specially ordered 10-foot fir was delivered to their home. It was so tall it had to be anchored with fishing line from the second story balcony.

“I’m thinking of putting ours there,” I’d reply, pointing to the other side of the room. “In front of the window.”

Yes. I had thought about it. I had thought about it a lot. We would get a Scotch Pine, not a spindly fir, a true green tree. We’d fill it with colored lights and put it right up to the window for all the neighbors to see. It wouldn’t be just like our friends’ old Christmas tree. It would be better!

Finally, December arrived. I chose a warm and sunny Saturday for the task. My husband, being the neat freak he is, insisted I bring along some old blankets to lay in the back of the van. He also helped me remove the back seat, before warning the kids one last time not to step in any mud puddles.

The trip to our local tree farm was as pleasant as always. We sang Christmas carols and enjoyed the scenery as we drove along. As soon as we stepped out of the van we were greeted by the unmistakable smell of pine. “Come on, kids!” I called. “Let’s go pick a tree.”

I must have looked at every tree they had, both in the warehouse and out in the fields, before I found the one I wanted. It was an eight-foot Scotch pine, perfectly shaped, and fuller than any other Christmas tree I had ever seen. It stood out in the middle of a field of pines, where it had grown year after year, just waiting for me to come along and call it my own. I knelt down on the soggy ground and began sawing with great enthusiasm.

That lasted about one minute.

It wasn’t until I had already cut into the bark that I noticed the incredible width of the trunk. This was going to take a while.

Meanwhile, the kids wandered here and there, their shoes getting more and more caked with mud. When my oldest boy asked if he could give it a try, I was only too happy to take a break. As I watched my son struggle with the chore, I realized it was time to seek help. I went to the office and returned with a large man carrying a heavy chain saw. Now we’d get moving!

One yank on the starter chain and a swipe later, my beautiful tree fell to the ground. “Don’t let it get muddy,” I cried, picturing my husband’s face when he saw what I intended to bring into our living room.

I’m not sure how the enormous tree and my four kids all fit into the van, but they did. As we made our way home I tried to focus on the positive. “Didn’t we get a nice tree?” I said cheerfully.

“I’m smooshed,” my daughter whined.

“We’ll be home in five minutes,” I told her, but I was feeling a little uncomfortable myself. I couldn’t help but wonder what my husband would say when we got home. I soon found out.

He took one look at our mud-caked shoes, another at the soiled interior of the van, and announced, “We’re not putting up that tree until I get this mess cleaned up.”

For the next five hours my husband only glared at me, as he scrubbed every inch of our vehicle with frightening resolve. It was dark before he got out the tree stand and called me to the garage.

By this time I had gone through every emotion, from frustration to anger to shame. I comforted myself with the belief that once he saw that beautiful tree standing in the front window he would appreciate, or at least tolerate, all the fuss and bother I had caused.

My husband took the tree by the limbs and told me to grab the trunk. I couldn’t believe the size of it. Together we lugged the monster around to the front door. Then the worst thing happened. We lifted the tree up the front steps into the doorway, where it became jammed. It didn’t fit.

I was about to cry. My husband grabbed the top of the tree and yanked it back outside. Needles flew everywhere. A minute later I heard the anguished sound of a saw coming from the garage. There went my beautiful Christmas tree.

It took several trimmings before the tree was small enough to get through the door and the trunk was small enough to fit into our tree stand. At least half of the tree ended up on the garage floor.

That evening as I hung the lights on our pretty four-and-a-half foot tree I realized how artificial I had been. I didn’t pick this tree to celebrate our Savior’s birth. I picked it to show off. I wanted to impress our friends and neighbors with the perfect Christmas tree.

But, the real truth is, it was our imperfection that caused God the Father to send us his Son. It is his perfection I should have been focusing on: the perfect love God displayed in giving us his Son to be our Savior from sin.

The following year we decided to buy an artificial tree. It has the words “Made in China” on the box. Assembly is quite simple. It involves matching the color-coded branches to their appropriate slots.

It has taken me a while, but I can honestly say I love our funny-looking plastic tree. It’s not much of a status symbol, but it never should have been in the first place. I now see our Christmas tree as both a reminder of the dangers of artificiality and also as a symbol of God’s love: perfect, beautiful, and totally real.

Happy decorating!