By Jackie Linden Schade

When I was in my teens, I recall sitting quietly in the living room of the home I shared with my parents. I was looking at the Christmas cards that had been artistically arranged and displayed by my mother. As I looked, I saw images of hope in the midst of darkness. I noticed the Magi, riding on camels as they followed a star. And the Christ Child, born in darkness, surrounded by his parents, with the notation “Sleep in Heavenly Peace.”

In addition to those cards, I loved the Christmas carols playing on the radio and in the stores. The music was filled with hope and promise, stirring in me a longing to be part of something filled with joy, hope, and grace. I wanted those carols to belong to me as part of a wider Christian community. But that was not possible. So, I saw quietly, waiting. Hoping for that heavenly peace to be present in my own life. My heart hungered for something that I could not name but knew I wanted.

It was a season of relative normalcy for our family. My father had stopped drinking and was working as an electrician. My mother was employed as a waitress during the day at a restaurant near the county courthouse in Mineola, New York. Loud arguments and broken crockery seemed to be a thing of the past. And then, there had been that miracle only a few days before. An event in which light poked through a tiny hole and into our family home. For a brief moment, it has filled our dwelling with beautiful, joy, incandescent light. It was a thing of beauty.

Things began in an ordinary way. My mother had decreed that my father and I were not spending enough time together. So she charged my father with the responsibility of taking me out to purchase a tree for our home. After school the next day, we dutifully went to a Christmas tree lot with our marching orders. I was told that I could select any tree that I wanted.

Keep in mind that things outdoors seem much smaller than they might appear indoors. I looked at many trees and at last found one that had what I thought was a really good shape—full, but with room enough to hang ornaments. I did not realize how tall the tree was. Without comment, my father purchased the tree. When we returned home, my father placed the tree next to the stoop. Our stoop had four steps, leading up to the front door. When my mother got home that evening, my father told her that he and I had purchased a little tree. My mother glanced out the front door at the tree, not noticing how much past the eaves of the house the tree extended.

The next day, when I returned home from school, I discovered that my father had cut a few feet off the tree and had already placed it in its stand. It was then that I noticed how incredibly tall the tree actually was. My father’s dilemma at that point was trying to figure out where to position the tree in the living room. Fortunately, the room had a cathedral ceiling which was ten or eleven feet high.

However, the ceiling was slanted on two walls, meaning that his placement options were limited. My father had made the decision to move the sideboard, positioned on the far wall of the living room, in order to place the tree against the wall. My first thought was that my mother was not going to be happy about having her sideboard moved without her permission. As I was thinking this, my mother walked in through the front door, followed shortly thereafter by my boyfriend (now husband), Henry.

I had been correct in my suspicion that my mother would not be happy with having her furniture rearranged. My mother was livid. Henry, in an attempt to lighten the mood, smiled and said, “No problem! We can just cut a hole in the roof!” My stomach tightened. My mother then began to sputter and then swear like a longshoreman. “I will not have it. I will not have it. I will not have it! Effing, effing tree!” Only she did not say “effing.” She dropped more F-bombs that afternoon than the Nazis dropped on London during the Blitz. “A little tree, he says. We bought a little tree! Effing tree, I will not have it. I will not have it. I will not have it. The effing thing!”

Usually, when my mother was on one of her tirades, my internal response was to want to yell, “Hit the deck! Incoming!” But, on this day, something remarkable began to happen. Someone started to laugh. I think it was Henry. It began as a giggle and grew to fully belly laugh. My father and I joined in. Three out of the four of us were unable to contain ourselves. I laughed until my stomach hurt, and then just kept laughing as tears rolled down my cheeks. My mother continued to yell and swear, dropping more F-bombs along the way. And each time she did, the rest of us laughed even harder at the sheer stupidity of the thing.

Finally, my mother threw in the towel. She couldn’t help but see the humor in the thing. And it was funny. My mother continued to swear but did so as she laughed out

loud. To be able to laugh together about something ridiculous was just plain fun. It was the light of transformation. Humor places things in their proper perspective. The tree would not be in the house for long. After my mother calmed down a bit, I heard my father tell how he had enjoyed watching me look at the trees and did not have the heart to tell me “no” when I selected one that was too large for our home. Years later, I notice the goodness in his words. I hear that I mattered more than a tree that was too big. Some things in life are not worth getting upset over. And a too- large tree was one of those things.

My father moved the tree into the front window of the living room and returned the sideboard back to its proper position. As the tree was wide, as well as tall, it fit there beautifully. After a few runs for tinsel, Henry and I had the tree decorated. My mother declared it the most beautiful tree we had ever had. After supper, we sat on the couch with our coffee admiring it. It was the most beautiful tree in the world as far as I was concerned. I can’t prove it, of course. We do not have a photo of the entire tree as our family home was built in 1951 and the rooms in houses built back then were much smaller than they are today. The tree was so wide that nobody couldback up far enough in those limited quarters to take a picture of the tree in all of its glory.

And I think that’s a good thing. The tree can stand as an icon, ensconced in memory, as remarkable and beautiful. It makes me remember that something good happened in our family home on a long-ago December afternoon. Heavenly peace and holy laughter, dancing with each other, shining in the light of God’s grace that poured out on my family for all who had eyes to see.

This reflection was written by Jackie Linden-Schade and originally published in House of Laughter, a book in Retreat House’s House of series. You can purchase a copy here.