The Christmas Tree

My First Christmas After the Divorce

The wind moaned through the tall fir trees that framed my white cottage in northern Minnesota. I carried Nick and the groceries through crunchy snow inside to warmth. Christmas was now about a month away, my first Christmas as a single parent. Switching on lamps, the gold carpeted living room glowed warmly. Nick ran to the toy box and I started supper.

"How would we celebrate Christmas?" I wondered. My parents were half a world away in Irian Jaya, Indonesia as mission workers, where I had grown up. Nick’s grandparents were in Arizona. His dad Zachary was living with Myrna seven miles west in the hamlet of Ebro where we had pastored a year ago. The small nativity presentation had been precious last year…now the interim pastor would carry on as best he could.

I stirred macaroni noodles into boiling water and put hot dogs in a pan to fry. The wind sifted snow against the kitchen window. I thought of Lee my friend with gratefulness. She and Josh had rented me this house, and they would likely have me to dinner Christmas Eve with their teenage children. That would help. And I would work 3-11 Christmas Day at the Fosston Hospital.

When dinner was ready I lifted Nick into his wooden high chair and lit the candle on the table. Every evening we feasted with Jesus. He sat where Zachary would have, at right angles to me, and the candle represented the Lord’s Presence. He lifted the pain, filled the emptiness.

Later, on the sofa beneath golden light I read a simple Bible story to Nick gave him a blessing as I tucked him into his crib. Sitting back on the couch and reflecting, I glanced at the large framed print on the wall across from me. A picture of the Marriage Supper of the Lamb—a long table of elegant place settings radiant with light.

Somehow the picture centered me. My circumstances were shaky, but inside I could be secure with Jesus. My Husband. Someday as the bride I would be seated at that heavenly table with loved ones—with Jesus at the head of the table.

It’s going to be ok, I decided. You are here, Lord, and I have eternal hope. I remembered from Psalms,

“In your presence is fullness of joy,

At your right hand are pleasures forevermore.”

Christmas greenery festooned the nurses’ station at the 35 bed Fosston Hospital, and a small Christmas tree lit the corner. I was charge nurse on the 3-11 shift, enjoying the relative quiet. The labor room was empty, and the emergency room dark.

Breathing a prayer of thanks for this, I continued my rounds, walking into Charlie Carter’s room. He had been hospitalized several times, was now sustained by IVs and morphine. I hurt for him. Dying of cancer, quiet and cheerful, he symbolized eternity to me. In a week or two his candle would extinguish on earth but burn bright in Heaven where his faith would become sight.

“How are you, Charlie?” I took his bony hand.

“Doing good, Mrs. Smith,” he rasped. “The pain is down right now.”

“I’ve been praying for you.”

“I appreciate it.”

I sat on the chair next to his bed. “I could almost be jealous,” I told him. “You know Jesus and are going to see him before I do. When you do, give him a big hug…tell him I’ll be coming later.”

“I will,” he glowed, almost laughing. I squeezed his hand.

Later, after finishing my shift I drove the 18 miles home to Bagley, picked Nick up from the babysitter, sleepy in his pajamas. After tucking him in bed I heated tea and crept into bed with my Bible. I felt the Lord’s presence. “I’m lonely, Lord, but I know you are here. Thank you that Zachary is down in Arizona with his parents for Christmas, and not living with Myrna right now. I need you to fill the emptiness. My earthly husband has been unfaithful, but you are here, my Rock, my Comforter.

I opened again to Isaiah 54, sweet promises for the desolate.

“Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be

removed,

Yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken

Nor my covenant of peace be removed, says the Lord,

Who has compassion on you.” (v.10)

Meditating on the chapter, I soaked up strength. Looking up at the Lord, I asked him, “What would you like for Christmas, Jesus? What could I give you?”

The answer came quiet and clear within me. “Why don’t you give Myrna and her three kids gifts from me?”

I was stunned…I considered. “Myrna? Well, she is my enemy, having taken Zack from me. And you said to ‘Love your enemies.’

I’m willing. At least Zack isn’t there right now.”

He seemed pleased.

A few days later I shopped for gifts. A small jewelry box for Myrna, three dolls for her daughters. I wrapped them with paper and ribbons and one evening drove the seven miles to the hamlet of Ebro. Parking, I walked shakily to her front door and knocked. The door opened, light slanting onto the snowy doorstep. Myrna looked astonished.

I thrust the bright gifts into her hands. “Here, these are for you and the girls. From Jesus. Merry Christmas!”

“Thanks, thank you,” she stuttered.

I turned to go…the door shut, and I stumbled back into the car. All was quiet as I slowly drove home. But somehow I felt different. Free…light…joyful.

Jesus’ joy—that was it. He was pleased with me! “Thank you, Lord…”

“I love you,” he whispered.

The short days and long nights slid by till Christmas Eve. Mom and Dad and my brothers would be celebrating with the Dani tribe half a world away in Irian Jaya. Elaborate reenactments of the Nativity, large pig feasts, tribal singing and dancing. I felt numb with loneliness. I never would have imagined being a single parent here in northern Minnesota where I had moved as an eager young pastor’s wife two years earlier.

Nick and I had decorated a small Christmas tree with lights and ornaments. It was scraggly but winsome—a Charlie Brown type of tree. Nick was gleeful when I put presents under it.

That evening we drove to Josh and Lee’s home for a special Scandinavian dinner—they were so thoughtful to include us. Then I stopped at Priscilla’s home—another single parent—and we exchanged gifts. Finally I arrived home, tucked Nick in bed, and sat by the lighted tree alone.

No one understands like Jesus, I thought. Any pain of death or divorce—any loss. “Fill me with yourself, Lord. You are all I really need.”

His Presence filled the room…and it was strange. He seemed to be sitting in the rocking chair by the tree. Regal and humble, clothed in white, eyes filled with compassion, love. He was enough. He filled Christmas.

He was Christmas.