The Kingdom for a Cookie

The most beautiful Christmas tree I ever saw was a discard on its way to the dump.

It had been a lean Christmas for us, and in the absence of more elaborate decorations, my mother built a simple faux fireplace on the main wall of our living room. The mantel allowed just enough room for my stocking and for the nativity scene to rest in prominent view as the center of our celebration. The whole display was made of cardboard, but it was colorful and festive and she got it special for me, so it was perfect.

My mom’s brother, Uncle Chip, who came visiting the day after Christmas, found it confusing. He pressed Mom at some length for a good reason that I did not have a Christmas tree, as all children rightfully should in his mind. (This is probably a good time to note that it was my first Christmas, and he himself was only five years old.) Not having the financial acumen or social sensitivity required to grasp the situation, he finally resigned himself to the injustice of it all and — no doubt at the vigorous behest of the adults in the room — decided to spend his energies playing outside.

Some time later, in the midst of dinner preparations, Uncle Chip came bursting back into the house. He was red-faced and out of breath, yet oddly reserved and mannerly for a young boy in the throes of vigorous exercise. This could mean only one thing: he wanted something.

Sure enough, Uncle Chip donned his most cherubic face and inquired as to whether he might have six of my mother’s homemade chocolate chip cookies, please, right away. This was oddly specific. My mother had made plenty of cookies and was happy to dispense them to her sweet little brother generously, but there was something curious in his manner that led her to question him. Why six cookies, and why the urgent urgency?

It turns out, my uncle hadn’t resigned himself to any injustice at all; he was busily setting things right. As he was enjoying the outdoors, one of our neighbor boys had been assigned the chore of taking his family’s used Christmas tree to the curb for pickup. Sensing providence and opportunity, my uncle immediately approached the boy and began wheeling and dealing for its acquisition. Since cookies were the only currency he could think of available to him, that’s what he offered, and the neighbor thought six would be fair. All my uncle needed was to take those cookies out, and the tree would be ours.

Swallowing back the rising lump in her throat, my mother opened the cookie jar and let him choose his six perfect cookies. He ran them outside, then talked his new friend into helping to carry the tree into our house.

This was some tree. Its original symmetrical form was now lopsided from the weight of its former decorations. There were scattered clumps of crushed icicles all over it on random branches. It has lost a fair number of needles at the hands of its young movers, too—but it was mine: my tree, my gift, bought with the uninhibited love of a young boy who cared enough to go find it for me. Love made it perfect.

I don’t know whether my family added any decorations to my tree that night or how long it was allowed to stay. In truth, I don’t actually have a visual memory of it at all, just images imprinted on my heart from the story as we’ve told it over the years. Yet that tattered old leftover tree remains as the standard to which I hold all Christmas trees, and the epitome of love made tangible and real.

Oh, and to the end of her days, my mother made sure to give her little brother cookies for Christmas. Every year.