THE BURDEN OF THE TREE

There was a particular way of hanging the tinsel. It was as if we were attending tinsel draping school.

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Instruction:
Only a few pieces picked into a tiny bunch,
carefully centered to just one branch,
then gently laid down.

Tiny silvered strands, the last to adorn a tree already weighted down.

This is the burden of the tree,
its purpose sometimes bigger than itself.

There were ghosts amongst those branches—
voices of generations,
faded images of faces framed in popsicle sticks
and tied with ragged little bows.
Mostly handmade from days I struggled to remember
and heavy with gold and green glitter glued on.

A forced and aching nostalgia
we carried forward year after year.

This heaviness. Too much for the girl to carry
and for the woman to unpack and pull forward
year after year.

What I longed for was a stripped-down version of our tinseled tree—
one that celebrated nature’s triumph of having placed the branches,
row by row, with arms outstretched like fingers reaching up to a Creator whose version of beauty could never be outdone.

Ours was never a Christmas of restraint but of striving
to fill a longing for something intangible
with every shiny tangible thing.

Obligation disguises itself as tradition.

It wears the responsibility of honor.
Of remembrance.
Of doing things “the right way.”

But beneath it lives grief that never found its voice,
longing that never learned its origin,
love that failed to land.

So, we handed it to the tree.

We asked its branches to hold what we could not—
to bear the weight of memory,
to make meaning of something felt but unnamed,
to shine brightly enough to distract us
from an ache it was never meant to heal.

No matter how carefully the tinsel was placed,
the longing remained.

Longing can never be answered by adornment.

What I wanted—what I needed—
was not a perfectly-decorated tree,
but a lighter one.

A Christmas relieved of its assignment to save me.

One honest enough to trust
that meaning does not need to be manufactured,
that love does not require proof,
that holiness does not demand excess.

And somewhere in that unburdening,
the story shifts to a different tree.

One not dressed or adorned.
Not brought inside for warmth or wonder.

A tree chosen not for beauty,
but for bearing—

Formed into a cross,
carrying the weight of a Savior
one not intended to shimmer,
but exquisite all the same.

Not to decorate our longing,
but to carry it.

The burden of that tree
was not obligation,
but love given freely.

And suddenly Christmas is no longer about what must be recreated.
It becomes about release—
The laying down of what never belonged on our shoulders.
The quiet relief of knowing we do not have to save the season.
Or ourselves.

The tree that once bowed beneath tinsel
now stands as witness alone—
its branches finally free of borrowed weight
because the burden has already been borne.

And perhaps this is the invitation—
To loosen our grip.
To let go of what exhausts rather than enlivens.
To allow Christmas to honor not what we perform,
but what is already true:

Love has come.
The weight has been lifted.

And that we are free
to let the tree be just a tree,
while the Savior does what only He can do.

NOTES | A Quiet Invitation

Christmas has a way of gathering weight.
We inherit traditions, expectations, and unspoken obligations—
to recreate what was meaningful,
to deliver wonder,
to perform joy.

But holiness has never required over-delivery.
It doesn’t arrive through excess,
nor does it ask us to carry what was never ours to bear.

The story of Christmas begins simply—
with a body laid down,
a burden willingly carried,
and a love that asked nothing in return.

So perhaps the invitation is not to do more,
but to release.

Reflection:

• How would you celebrate the holiness of this season
  if relieved of the obligation to carry tradition forward?

• What might Christmas look like
  without over-performing, over-delivering, over-proving?

• What would remain
  if you allowed love to arrive unadorned?

Holiness has a way of meeting us when our hands are finally empty—Janene