I stood and buttoned my coat after the Sunday morning service, steeling myself to face the January chill, the dreariness of another long winter setting in.
David, my five-year-old, came running. He grabbed my arm, pulling me down the hall. “Mom, you’ve got to see this,” he said.
I hadn’t seen him this excited since, well, Christmas morning. But that seemed ages ago. I’d long since boxed up the Nativity, the ornaments and lights, and dragged the tree to the curb. All the work of the holiday with none of the wonder.
We got to his Sunday school classroom. He led me to the trash can. “Look,” he said. I peered in. At the bottom was a small potted Christmas tree, the one his class had decorated weeks ago.
I looked at David quizzically. “Can we take it home, Mom?” he asked.
“Well, I don’t know,” I said hesitantly. I reached into the trash can and carefully pulled out the tree by its spine. It was not much more than a foot tall. The few branches that weren’t brown looked like they were fading fast. Dead needles fell like snow.
“We can help it, right?” David said.
“We can try, maybe,” I said, not wanting to get his hopes up too much.
We went out to the car. David put the tree beside him in the backseat.
“We’re going to take care of you, little tree,” he said. “Don’t you worry.”
At home I got scissors and trimmed off the brown, dried-out branches. By the time I was done all that was left were the top two branches.
I soaked the hard-as-concrete soil and put the tree in the kitchen window, where it would get lots of indirect light.
David took a long look at the tree in its new spot and even he seemed to realize what a hopeless cause it probably was. “Do you think we should say a prayer for it?” he said.
“It can’t hurt,” I said. We held hands.
“Dear God, please help this tree get better,” David whispered.
“Amen,” I added. Still I couldn’t help but think that God had bigger things to worry about.
The next week I watered the tree when I remembered, which wasn’t often. The house was a mess after the holidays, there was laundry to do, grocery shopping, the usual routine. David ran to check on the tree first thing every morning.
“It’s looking good,” he’d cheerfully report. Were we seeing the same tree? To me it still looked pitiful, our very own Charlie Brown Christmas tree.
Then one morning I heard David shout, “Mom, come quick! It’s the tree.” I hurried to the kitchen. David was on his tiptoes, peering up at his little friend. “Look!” he said, pointing. “It’s growing!”
Sure enough, sprouting from the very top of those two branches were two tiny new stubs. That touch of green felt like a gift—an incredible, unexpected, unearned gift.
“Mom, we did it!” David said.
“Yes, we did,” I said, “with God’s help.”
Soon I was checking on the tree each morning too. Winter didn’t feel so dreary. I made sure to water it, and like David I took to offering it a kind word, a devotional of sorts.
New branches kept sprouting and with each one, I felt something grow inside of me—the hope that comes from Christmas, a promise still as fresh and alive as it was that night in Bethlehem long, long ago.
