The Last Christmas Tree

 

The repercussions of Covid-19 continue to make waves in unexpected places.

Usually we just rock up to the Christmas tree lot when we’re all free to go. Not this year. We had to book a slot to buy a tree at the Tyrebagger Hill, where we always go. No slots left last weekend, so I was left to choose the tree on my own yesterday, between 12 and 1.

A young man dutifully checked my license plate as I drove into the wood. ‘Morrison?’ he asked. Tick.

The venison burger bar was open and a couple, hatted and scarved, hunched in the cold, munching. I walked past.

Checked the prices of fir, pine, spruce; passed the 10-foot giants, 8-foot, 7-foot and then: shockingly, the bays for the 6’ trees and under stood empty. I gaped. Not a tree in any of the enclosures. We are always a bit late to get our tree, but we’ve never faced an empty lot.

I wandered off the path. I scoured the site. There, on the other side of a barrier, I noticed a heap of green. I went closer and examined it; stood it up: it was full and green, but its top had broken off in a gash. It had been discarded. Tossed aside. A reject.

Perfect, I thought as I dragged it to the pay till.

‘I hope you got a discount,’ came the comment when I got home. No. It’s a lovely tree. Why would I ask for a discount?

I’m sure there’s an old carol about the last Christmas tree on the lot, languishing in rejection until chosen by someone.

We decorated the tree last night. The angel fits perfectly, her skirt covering the torn trunk as she peers between fresh green branches. We hung the stockings. I kept out the extra stocking with no name. I like to be prepared in case someone unexpectedly graces our home on Christmas.

May we all be aware of that person without family, without home, lost and alone. Jesus spoke of the good shepherd leaving the flock to find the lost.

There’s always room for one more.