It was not my kind of tree.
Those candies she gave away to children until only the cotton would be left on Christmas Day.
That tree had always been old—dad and mom bought it the year they got married.
But that was just the overture to an opus she called “White Christmas.” She’d wrap in Manila paper various items: bars of soap, toothpaste, shampoo, and clothes we were still wearing, and stack them up under the tree. These, too, would disappear on Christmas Day; they were for the less fortunate members of our church.
On Christmas eve, after the evening church service, the youth group would be served arroz caldo in our house. Then after we had sung some carols and formed a prayer circle (hands interlocked), thanking God for His birth, they’d go home and we’d go to bed.
“White Christmas” was not my kind of Christmas, spanning my grade school years through college.
That’s why I looked forward to my first real white Christmas when I left for the US. Chicago did not disappoint. It snowed from morning till night days before December 25. Walking from school to the train station on Christmas eve, I marveled at real tress blanketed with fluffy wads of cotton.
Suddenly, however, images of our “White Christmas” at home obscured the postcard-like scenery. I bawled. I ached for that old Christmas tree, the whole “White Christmas” shebang. It was at that choked-up moment, at age 19, that my heart did a turnabout.
Christmas is not about me. It’s about the birth of our Redemption, of how our sins shall be white as snow.
Unmindful of the flakes falling on my face, I looked up and recited the verse that always ended our prayer at home before turning in on Christmas eve:
“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.” Isaiah 9:6 (KJV)
Merry Christmas, everyone!
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