There Oughta Be a Carol…

for taking down the Christmas tree… We put them up and decorate them with such excitement, “Deck the Halls” and other favorite songs probably playing. The tree, fragrant with soft branches, quickly becomes the center of the room. To many homes, it probably brings the most beauty of the whole year. Anticipation is high; the full season stretches ahead. We envision family members and friends gathering here, hot meals and cocoas, enticing gifts piled beneath branches. The ornaments represent the whole arc of a life—from a childhood tiny red tea pot, to souvenirs of travel, to gifts from special people who chose creatively. For over a month the first thing I do every morning is light the tree and the last thing, turn off its bright glow. It’s so hard to take the tree down, I recently spent three days at a retreat center, praying through the transition.

Fortunately, the kind staff at the retreat house gives me a room with a full view of the ocean, so I can watch the play of light take many forms there. The first rays touch the white ridge of waves, then sun lays a blazing path to the horizon at noon, later pours its molten gold and at sunset tints the ocean a deepening fuchsia. Grace too can take many forms, through hellos and goodbyes, the first Sunday of Advent through Epiphany. Or maybe the start and end points aren’t so clear, more like one ocean with high and low tides.

We can navigate the fluctuations like surfers gracefully carving the waters. Firmly tethered to their boards, or in metaphor, the divine, they look past the immediate wave and watch the far horizon, reading the swells, or seeing the Big Picture. My prayer was to learn to ride the sometimes tumultuous waves of life with the same art and trust.

Returning home to the inevitable, removing the tree ornaments and wrapping them in tissue paper, the sweet narratives were wrapped in as well. This year, I showed my granddaughters the ornament their dad had made when he was five—45 years ago. He beamed, seeing a small gingerbread man his teacher had made him in fourth grade. “Mrs. Whitman!” He recognized her immediately, and remembered how she loved his stories. I suspect she planted some seed, so that now as he stands before a large audience, acknowledging an award for his work, he easily uses stories to lighten his talk.

Interesting, that I don’t recall taking down Christmas trees over many years, only that their beauty became a focal point of the whole season. This year, my granddaughter helps me dismantle, thus making the process less painful. Still, hard to ignore an aching void in the corner of the room, one that I hope will fill again next year in life’s unfolding mystery.