This story begins with two loving parents
Who by their own admission
Were unified in the meaning of Christmas
And were starting holiday traditions.
You’d think the man and wife
Could decide on a tree with no alarm
Dad said trees don’t come from stores;
This family would cut one from the farm.
“I’m allergic to real trees,” Mom cried.
“The children are much too young.
Let the ornaments stay in the box
And the lights remain unstrung.”
The wife’s watery eyes were not of sentiment
But aversion to the Evergreen
That led to steroids for her skin
And inhalers so that she could breathe.
Husband was bewildered by his wife’s new ailments
But soon the woman realized
That to have a happy, old-fashioned Christmas
Her man would hospitalize his bride.
With love and dreams and visions,
More plans he was contemplating.
The wife found his Christmas exuberance
Quite frankly irritating.
But they pressed on with decorations
To make memories for this memoir:
Like when the toddler ate the tree light
and spent Christmas Eve in the E.R.
The tree would not stop shedding,
Needles broke the vacuum but Daddy fixed it.
The dog drank water from the tree stand
And threw up on the carpet.
The angry mom looked to the manger scene
But barked in disarray:
“WHERE IS BABY JESUS???”
He was missing from the display.
Was He stolen? Dropped? Misplaced?
He was present earlier that week.
No, it’s just the four-year-old’s version
The mom, knowing she might lose it
circled the family ‘round in prayer
Hands held, except the youngest’s finger
was up her nose exploring something there.
Mom threw her hands up in surrender:
“This blasted Christmas Spirit!! I’ve tried and tried.
No matter how much this family strives
We just can not get it right.”
If Jesus spoke, He’d sweetly chuckle:
“The family squabbles, broken glass, and messed-up tree
Are symbols and reminders. They tell the story
Of WHY your family needed Me.”