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As I reached into the tree to remove the last candy cane, I thought, "I can't believe that the grandkids missed this one. "It is just the right height for them to see." But mid-thought I heard, "Ow!"
As I turned, I realized that I was the one who had exclaimed it. The slight trickle of blood on my finger let me know that the pine needles were dry and stiff - and sharp. It doesn't matter that we had gone to the tree farm, selected it, cut it down, shoved it into the bed of the truck and brought it home just a few weeks ago. No matter how fresh it was when we brought it home, longchamp bags$ebey$, it was dry and brittle now. Water still stood in the base, but the tree was dry. I decided Christmas trees don't drink any water at all; it's just something to make us feel safer about having a tree in our house with electric lights strung around it. Perhaps a scam to get us to buy one of those big tree stands.
I wiped off the small blood drops and headed down the hall to the bathroom. I rummaged through the box of first aid supplies. Darn! The only band-aids in the house were Spiderman, Little Einsteins or Dora the Explorer. Not a plain brown one anywhere. At least I'm not leaving the house - so no one will see me, a 54 year old man with Spiderman on his finger. I always try to have the logo ones on hand for the grandkids. It does make me smile though. It is a major decision for them, selecting one to place on their small cuts. My grandson has to look at every one through the wrapper before he can pick one. Even then, sometimes he changes his mind.
I got back to the tree, but decided to take a break - needed to assess the rest of the decoration take-down - a good time to eat this candy cane. A pile of ornaments on the coffee table, three strands of lights on the floor and four red and white garlands coiled on the end table, stuffed Christmas animals piled together in one corner, nativity set still on display - everything started, nothing finished. The candy cane was good.
I unscrewed the brackets in the tree stand and lifted the tree out. Leaning it over, I removed the topper and grabbed the tree trunk through the branches. Getting a good grip was easy, then I realized that I had forgotten to put on gloves. Now I'll have the sap all over my hands. As I sighed, I hauled it through the living room and down the stairs. Of course, it was over five feet tall, so I needed to cut it in half for the trash service to take it away next week. But at least they would take it. I pulled my pruning saw down from its place on the pegboard, placed the tree on the garage floor and pushed my way through the needles to position the blade on the trunk. Fortunately, pine is such a soft wood, longchamp le pliage$ebey$, it is quickly cut and ready to be placed at the curb.
Then, I stopped and looked at the bare tree which brought about some reflection. We decorated a tree as part of the celebration of Christ's birth; his final sacrifice for us was to hang on the cross. No doubt that the wood did not appear as nice and smooth as we see depicted in much of the crucifixion artwork. More likely than not, the cross was a raw tree with the branches cut off. It probably looked just like the trunk of my Christmas tree.
As I thought about this, I leaned back on tailgate of my truck and tried to imagine what it was like to see him hanging there. The crown of thorns on his head, the nails in his feet and hands left the blood flowing and dripping to the ground below. He came with a purpose. He gave his life as a sacrifice to reconcile us to God.
I rubbed the pine sap from my hands with a rag dipped in turpentine, I noticed my Spiderman band-aid - I almost feel ashamed that I even said "Ow!" for such a small drop of spilled blood.
After all, compared to the One whose birthday we just celebrated, it was nothing.
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