Close to Christmas our family didn’t have a tree yet,
and word had spread we might not have one at all.

Our child-hearts were heavy
as we slowly accepted that Christmas
would look different this year.

I clung to the meaning of Christmas beneath the surface—
Christ’s birth,
Joseph and Mary’s sacrifices—
and I found the beauty in their story
perhaps more deeply than my young mind
had ever understood before.

Just as I was settling into these discoveries,
my father brought a tree home.

All smiles, all grin.
We were thrilled and asked where it came from.
He said it was a runaway tree.

We laughed and asked how it had gotten away,
and he told us he’d seen it running near the roadside
and decided to give it a lift.

I learned to believe in miracles then—
just like the miracle of Christ’s birth.

All we needed came to us that Christmas
in unexpected ways:

A hauling truck that lost a tree
somewhere on its route.
Neighbors bringing cookie plates
and handwritten cards.
Community gifting each of us children a present.
Family doing the same.

I prayed a big thank-you to God
for all miracles,
even the small ones.

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