No one notices the wet footprints or the trail of melting snow—the evergreen tree with tiny pine cones clinging to it is the center of attention. Willing hands lift it into its picture-window stand; critical eyes judge its fullness and straightness: No, that’s too far the other way; there, it’s perfect. Mother untangles the lights and replaces burnedout bulbs while father sets the star on top. The children twine the tree with red and white strings of cranberries and popcorn and add their favorite ornaments—a bell, a china bird, a golden angel. Finally everyone drapes long icicles to shimmer in the soft, tinted light.
Before dawn on Christmas morning, the pajama-clad children (who have to be called at least three times the other 364 mornings of the year) poke and squeeze bulging stockings, shake packages, and sneak previews of the bikes and dollhouses too big to wrap. The crackling excitement of previous weeks has peaked; the day they thought would never arrive finally did. How can parents sleep so late on this of all mornings?Such impatient excitement rarely reflects on the reason for the holiday. Perhaps later the family will set aside gifts and gather before a blazing fire to read of the greatest gift of all—the stable-born baby who grew up to adorn a cross-shaped tree.
