As a child, I would accompany my parents and brother to the Christmas Tree farm, looking for the perfect specimen to cut down. Despite the hassle, there is nothing more wonderous than the smell of fresh pine.
My husband also prefers pines to plastic. So it was a very easy decision that, as a couple, we would have real trees.
Over the years we’ve had some beauties — aaaand some Charlie Brown trees.
Our ornaments are a hodge-podge of gifts, acquisitions, and well-intentioned Target purchases.
At one point, my parents gave me a box of ornaments that they had used in the early years of their marriage, and — let me tell you — these are authentic 1970’s gems. My husband brought a handful of NASCAR and farming-themed ones into the fold, and one of my personal favorites is the ugly ornamental gold peacock that I got at a white elephant exchange.
As our lives have intertwined and our family has grown, these ornaments now represent so many different things: places we’ve lived or visited, the births of our two boys, and gifts that have been given over a decade of Christmases. Plus, let us not forget the handmade ones that the children have created, with questionable artistry but also with unquestionable love.
Every Christmas, I struggle with my inner desire to have one of those “perfect” trees. The ones whose branches fluff out in magical symmetry, who don’t shed needles all over the floor, and whose ornaments and ribbons are a perfectly coordinated display of dazzling beauty.
THAT WILL NEVER BE MY TREE.
But also: I’M OKAY WITH THAT.
Yes, I struggle with it. I struggle letting the boys choose where to hang the ornaments (those are too close together; no you can’t hang that one where it makes the branch sag). I struggle with accepting a tree whose lowest branches are a good 3′ off the ground (just check out the picture). And I lose my mind over whether or not the string of lights is evenly spaced.
But it’s a reminder I need every year. Our imperfect tree is the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen.
It’s beautiful for its flaws. It’s beautiful for the memories and lives it represents. It’s beautiful for the tradition that is steeped in love. It’s beautiful in the eyes of my children.
It’s not perfect. And that’s okay. Neither are we. You don’t have to be perfect to be beautiful. To have meaning. To be loved.
