When I was in elementary school, every year we were given an assignment to write about our family’s Christmas traditions. We had none. No menorah to light or stockings to hang and no fireplace. We were Catholic, but not consistently practicing ones.

No advent candles marked the coming of Christmas. No extra trips to church; not even for confession. No special foods, except for a sickly-sweet date-based treat that my Grandma Rieske made.

My dad would buy a real tree and store it in the garage, in a bucket of water, until the time was right for decorating.  He always went alone. I never understood why I couldn’t go: choosing a tree seemed like it would be fun. But that’s not how my family functioned.

When it was time to decorate, my dad would stretch out the strings of lights all over the floor. He’d cuss and yell, often and loudly, because the wires would always be tangled despite being carefully stored away the prior year.

He’d plug them in, and if a string didn’t light, he would painstakingly replace a bulb, plug it back in. If it didn’t work, he’d remove the new bulb, put it in a different slot, and so on, until he’d get the thing to work.

At first it was fun to watch, but then he’d get angrier and angrier as time went on. I’d disappear.

Once he had lights, he was the one who strung them on the tree. According to him, he was the only one who could ensure proper placement.

One time my mom put the lights on when he was at work. Oh, that was a huge mistake! He threw a temper tantrum fit for a toddler.

My siblings and I were allowed to hang the ornaments, but only under his supervision. The sizes, shapes and colors had to be balanced, not clustered.

Our ornaments were cheap, easily breakable things. Nothing special about them, no heirlooms, no gifts from family.  Nothing fancy, either, just solid colors that were quickly fading.

Tinsel came next. There was an art to placing these strands of foil.

My dad was in charge of the process. He’d lie on his back, under the tree, and slowly, methodically, worked outward, would place one strand at a time, exactly one-inch space between each. 

The tinsel also had to drape evenly over the branch, so that the edges were in perfect alignment.

Night after night, my dad would slide under the tree, placing the tinsel so carefully that, when finished, it was a shimmering silver wave.

He’d work hi way up the trunk, always from inside out. He’d stop periodically to check of his work.  If he didn’t like something, he’d pull off all the tinsel from that section and start again.

None of us were allowed to drape a single tinsel on the tree.

It changed when we moved to California. My brother and I were both teens, in high school, and showing reasonable intelligence. Plus my dad was having difficulty finding full time work, and often drove for hours to and from a printing office that hired him for a day.

I don’t think he allowed us to take over out of trust, but rather because he lacked time and energy. He did, however, inspect our work. Anything found to be substandard had to be redone.

Only after the last bit of tinsel was applied were strings of garland added. There was an art for garland hanging.

You began in the back, tucking an end around a lower branch. As you circumnavigated the tree, the garland must travel in a wave-like pattern, rising and falling as with the tide. The distance between each wave had to be precise.

Interestingly enough, he had no rules about the color, so our garland strings were in many different colors over the years.

Another “tradition” concerned the manager. It could be displayed at any time after Thanksgiving. The entire entourage would be present, even though we all knew that the angels and shepherds didn’t arrive until Christ was born. The wise men bowed in supplication weeks before the baby appeared. The “star” was lit every night, pointing the way.

Even after my younger sister no longer believed in Santa, after we were in bed, Christmas Eve, my father unwrapped the baby Jesus and placed him before Mary and Joseph. I was the one who would go straight to the manger in the morning and announce that the Christ child had arrived.

My siblings headed for the gifts.

Gift opening took up an entire morning. We never had more than three gifts each, but my mother insisted that each gift be opened with the same precision and care that she put into the wrapping.

My dad handed out the gifts. My brother opened his first, then me, then my sister. Mom came next, and then my dad. Paper was gently removed, folded, and stacked.  Ribbon remnants and bows received the same treatment. “Leftovers” were packed away for the next year.

There were behavioral expectations. We had to show proper appreciation for each gift, meaning that there were oohes and aahes all morning long. Even if you didn’t like the gift, or had not asked for it, you had to fake appreciation and gratitude. Any sign of ungraciousness, and you were sent away while the rest of the family finished. Sometimes you’d get the rest of your gifts later that day, but not always.

You also had to sit perfectly still while someone else opened their gift.

We seldom had large meals. When you’re poor, you eat a lot of beans and potatoes, but on Christmas we enjoyed ham, scalloped potatoes, baked beans, rolls, and a homemade pie for dessert.

During the summer of my thirteenth year, when we still lived in Ohio, a surprise thunderstorm arose in the early morning. It was a viscous, thunderous affair, rattling not just windows, but the entire house.

There was a huge explosion that made me sit up in bed. My mother, not my dad, was the one who searched the house to make sure we were all okay. As she passed the room I shared with my sister, she told us to stay in bed, then closed the door.

Later on, we learned that lightning had struck the antenna attached to our garage.  My dad knew it had to be grounded, but had not had time to do so. When the lightning hit, our house exploded in a ball of fire.

After the volunteer firemen left, and the ashes had cooled, we discovered that the garage had suffered the most. One whole side was gone, and everything inside was melted metals and ash.

My mother insisted we sift through the remains. I didn’t want to, but I did so because it was expected.

It fascinated me how some things were whole while others were decimated.

My bike was unscathed, but my brother’s, which sat right next to mine, was a melted ruin. My mother’s canned foods sat proudly on their shelf, next to a crystal radio set that was a charred mess. 

The most surprising find was the Christmas manager. The manger itself was nothing but ash. Mary, Joseph, the angels, shepherds and wise men survived, but were badly charred. The baby Jesus, which had been wrapped, like all the other figures, in flimsy tissue paper, was unscathed. Not one burn mark.  All the fingers were there, as was the halo. 

If you didn’t know it had been in a fire, you’d think it had just come from the store.

Years late as I recall that morning, it gives me goose bumps. How could that figurine, cheaply made of a ceramic cast, have survived the intense heat of the blaze, when all the rest of the manger set was destroyed?

Standing in the still smoldering ruins of our garage, as I stared at the figurine cradled in my mother’s hands, I felt an electrical charge run up my back. An awareness stole over me, an awareness that just as baby Jesus was saved from the fire, so would I be spared from the never-ending torture that was my life.

I was convinced that as long as I believed in Him, I was promised life eternal. 

In my church we don’t usually talk about “being saved” or “accepting Jesus as my savior,” but I felt as if I had been pulled back from a precipice, and that I was, indeed, saved.

From those humble Christmas traditions, I did takeaway some important lessons. I developed respect for the gift and the giver. I understood pride in accomplishment. I discovered that Christmas was not about material possessions, but about the power of the Lord to pull us through fire and travesty.

Even though my relationship with my parents continued to be tense until they both passed away, I eventually understood that they wanted us to give homage where homage was due, to honor God and family, and to take time to enjoy the true meaning of Christmas.