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Growing up Jewish, I never had a Christmas tree in the house. I'd see them in stores, on TV, or at friends' homes looming over a mountain of unopened presents. Frankly it looked like a lot of work. I never felt pangs of envy, and never requested one of my own. As a young adult I was even less likely to get one, living with roommates more concerned with hangovers than hanging ornaments.
My wife, on the other hand, had always had a tree. Far from religious, she still grew up draping tinsel and twinkling lights from a tree every December, which was summer time in her native Chile. She celebrated with her parents and extended family, wrapping gifts that were littered with fallen pine needles by the time Christmas morning came around. She only stopped celebrating with a tree 12 years ago, when her mom passed away from cancer. She hasn't had one since.
When we had our first daughter, we talked of getting a tree, but it never materialized. With our second daughter, it felt more like a safety hazard than a bearer of joy. Our oldest, now 5, has been talking about Santa Claus and holiday decorations since she swallowed her last bite of Thanksgiving pie, so I wasn't surprised when my wife sent me a photo from The Home Depot of a seven-and-a-half-foot fake pine tree with built-in LED lights, insinuating that the girls wanted — demanded, as I imagined it — a Christmas tree this year. My resistance felt futile.
"Is it expensive?" I asked. It was on sale, more than half-off.
"Will it fit in the basement?" Yes.
"But in the crawl space? Through the hole?" It separates, baby. I'm going for the box, I was told.
"It looks big, but I'll let you choose."
My first Christmas tree showed up in my life already mounted in the corner of our home, alternating colored lights — pulsating bulbs of red, blue, green — and twinkling white lights, a fairytale luminescence reflecting off the windows and electrifying our living room. My wife had placed a LED star on top, a pattern of undulating diamonds, and had begun stringing beads and silver ornaments. She bought blue and silver tinsel, a nod to the colors of Hanukkah. A box of little disco balls sat ready to hang. She put in the work, and it was beautiful.
My oldest daughter's face lit up when she first walked through the door. It was as joyful a moment as I have ever seen, as she ran to the tree and inspected every inch, touching the flashing bulbs, rubbing the fake pine needles between her fingers, kissing into the air. "I love it, I love it, I love it," she said. All three girls set to work decorating from top to bottom, hanging silver pendants and sparkling everything and basking in the light reflecting off it all, as I watched basketball on TV and admired their progress.
Andrew Behrendt
In the end, I love the Christmas tree in the corner too. To me, it is comforting in a non-religious way, bringing a sense of togetherness to our living room, tucked next to our wood-burning fireplace in the mountains of Colorado. We leave it on day and night, a joyful reminder that a family lives here, one that is learning to balance different backgrounds and cultures with a modern home aesthetic, a sense of peace and place in the world. I love looking at the tree, watching it sparkle, and seeing its colors change. I'm tempted to never take it down.
Admittedly, I have always been a bit of a holiday Grinch, preferring the nonchalance of a normal day to the pressure of celebrating a special one. But with Christmas and Hanukkah starting on the same day this year, the tree in our living room has taken a special meaning for my family, laced with blue and silver and decorated by tiny hands with love. In a search for the holiday spirit I have never quite identified with, my first Christmas tree feels just right.
