Read For the Love of Christmas for Free Online

up—and up. “Wait! It’s too tall!”
    The kids’ rosy faces beamed. Mike glowed with satisfaction. The coveralled man waited ­expectantly.
    Feeling like Scrooge, I sighed and thought of the stack of greeting cards to sign, the cookies to bake, the errands to run. Wouldn’t trimming twice the tree take twice the time? Still, my family wanted this tree. I didn’t have the heart to cause a fuss.
    At home, Mike dragged the fir through the back door, and I gasped as branches compressed and squeezed through the slender frame. Oh no! Where could we put this giant ­redwood?
    In the past, we had tried various locations for oversized trees, but bushy greenery was always in the way.
    â€œI could rearrange the furniture,” Mike offered. He moved a chair onto the porch and dragged the couch, loveseat, and coffee table against the far wall. I scowled at the inconvenience Mike’s tree was causing. This was not the simple Christmas I wanted.
    Mike tugged the enormous fir into the newly freed corner. It looked like we were on the Titanic and all the furniture had slid to one end.
    The mood was as icy as the frigid winter weather outside. I felt anything but jolly and bright. I pouted like a child who had found coal in her stocking. Angry words were on the tip of my tongue: I told you so. I told you not to get a big tree. I told you it wouldn’t fit! But I stopped myself.
    The kids had long since scattered. And Mike—Mike looked like a man who was trying to provide his family with a memorable Christmas in the best way he knew. I read the disappointment in his eyes.
    I knew without a doubt that what happened next was totally in my control. I could react in anger and spew out those hateful words—I told you so—or I could ignore the minor inconveniences and rejoice in the grandeur of the grand fir. I took a deep breath and surveyed the space again.
    It’s not important enough to ruin Christmas, I decided. I felt the tenseness in my muscles relax. “How about if we try it over there?” I pointed.
    â€œIt will be in the way,” Mike warned softly.
    I nodded. “That’s okay.”
    â€œWe’ll have to shove the dining table up against the wall.”
    I was silent for a moment. “I can live with that.”
    When all the pushing and pulling was done, our eleven-foot tree stood in the back of the dining room, branches jutting out crazily every which way. Although it took up half the room, the tree was elegant and beautifully proportioned. Its piney scent smelled like Christmas.
    It took us all night and fifteen strings of big ­old-fashioned bulbs to fill the tree. Hundreds of special ornaments adorned the boughs. Mike placed the old cloth angel at the top. She gazed down, reminding me of a central focus I had forgotten. How silly of me to have overlooked the more important meaning of Christmas.
    That night, the whole family snuggled in the dark, admiring colorful lights, hand-blown glass ornaments, and glittery tinsel. It didn’t matter that the furniture was cramped to one side or that we constantly banged our heads on the dangling chandelier that used to be isolated by the placement of the dining table.
    We had our tree and—big or small, tucked out of the way or inconveniently placed—it just didn’t matter. Our family tradition lived on. Christmas hadn’t been simple, but it was simply perfect.

Out on a Limb
    By Andrea Langworthy
    M y husband and I bought a fake Christmas tree. Pre-lit, with tiny clear lights. We’d talked about it for years. Every time he dragged the remains of a Fraser fir through the house and out the sliding glass door opening. After he’d hoisted it over the deck and pulled it up the hill in time for the sanitation company to haul it away. It was a hot topic when I vacuumed millions of fallen needles from the carpet. By the time each new holiday season rolled around, though, we forgot the