Epiphany Parable

Pine needles on a white sheet brought back the smell of Christmas.  Mary carefully laid the tree on the white sheet.  She wrapped it as though she were wrapping it in swaddling clothes.  The season’s celebration had ended and now it was time to bury the remains.

Lifting the tree was like lifting a body.  A flood of memories poured through her mind:  Uncle Jake’s last Christmas with the family when he was diagnosed with leukemia…the time her best male friend, Henry, moved into town and they sang together in the Children’s Choir on Christmas Eve…the high school concert where Helga began to sing and forgot the words.  Then there were the boxes of candy given out each year at Christmas time after the church’s Sunday School Program.  She laughed as she thought of the year of the silver aluminum Christmas tree shining with colored flood lights.

Mary gently wrapped the tree and carried it to the station-wagon.  A tear ran down her cheek when her arms felt the weight of the tree.  It was like she was carrying little Annie, her first-born, and fastening her into her car-seat for her first midnight service.

The tree was now in the station-wagon and Mary began to drive to the distant field.  The tree seemed to take on the shape of a body under the old sheet.  Passing the funeral home on the way reminded her of the Christmas that the family buried mother:  faithful mother, always present and baking Christmas Stollen, dressing her warmly so that she could use her new sled in the snow.  Mother, singing hymns from the heart, never giving up hope.

Suddenly she approached the open field.  The scent of burning trees was fresh.  Carefully, slowly, like a fine liturgy on Christmas Eve, her ritual continued as she carried the tree, unwrapped it, and placed it on the fire.  She had finally joined the others in this annual event.  The night sky lit up with the pyre of pine as the scent of Christmas filled the air of that small town.  It was the annual Epiphany celebration:  the burning of the Christmas trees.

Everyone in their own way had carried Christmas to this place each year -   remembrances of birth and death and the laughter in between.

The embers of endings glowed in the night, and the fire of new beginnings warmed their cold hearts.  The Christmas tree burning ceremony ended with everyone holding hands in a circle and singing the Epiphany hymn:  “Brightest and Best of the Stars of the Morning.”  Christ, the Light, was present in the ritual of remembering creating new lives from the ashes of the past.

Copyright 2018 @ A Poem a Sunday

May be used with permission

kennstorck@gmail.com