Leaning Christmas trees
an offering.
Trying my best to appreciate the Christmas tree—its little lights of purple, pink, and gold, wrapped around like the orbit of some galaxy. A red sock, a star, even a bandana (Christmas tree giving gangsta vibes).
But there’s a subtle unease in this view. Something skewed, leaning on the cupboard. The tree isn’t standing straight. It’s not some kind of symmetry OCD, but enough to make my teeth gently clench every time I look at it.
I made a card for Christmas that reads, “Your permission to cry this Christmas.” At a recent Christmas market, a beautiful Black French lady saw it and said, “Oh my God, I’ve never seen such a message for Christmas.” She placed her hand on her chest as though the words landed exactly where they were meant to.
The card came from a place of offering—offering grace, a moment of surrender, a way out from the unrelenting pressure to feel festive every holiday season. But here’s the thing about leaning too much into the cerebral and poetry: suddenly everything becomes a metaphor.
Now the leaning Christmas tree is a metaphor. A quiet nudge asking me to give it grace. To let it rest, too, on the timber of the cupboard. And maybe to let myself do the same.
Yes, let’s be happy until our lungs burn from laughter and wine. But let’s also be John at the supper table, leaning on Jesus’ chest. (John 13:23-25).
There’s space for both—joy that roars and stillness that heals.
For even the God who arrived on Christmas Day, came crying in His mother's arms.