The First Christmas Tree

Once upon a time, in the far- off land of Judea, there lived a young shepherd boy named Arnon. He was a small lad, and lived in a tiny house with his father and mother. They were very poor but managed to get by through their labor. Father and son tended the flock, while Mother kept their home tidy, prepared their simple meals, and carefully tilled a garden of delicious vegetables.

One chilly spring evening when Arnon was only eight years old, he was sitting on a stool in front of their home, whittling at a long staff curved into a hook at one end. His father had gone off with half the flock, leaving young Arnon behind to finish his new shepherd's staff. It was a family tradition they'd had for generations—when a firstborn son turned eight years old, he would make his staff and use it throughout his life.

The young shepherd finished with youthful impatience, the sturdy wood roughly rounded. He hastened to gather his sheep, all twenty of them; their bleating and braying were comforting and familiar. He knew their names and loved them as only a shepherd boy could love his sheep.

The fluffy animals cavorted along behind him as he rushed up the path to the plain near the village, where he knew he would find his father. There! Across the valley, he could see the tall silhouette and grey cloud of sheep.

"Abba! Look!" He cried, waving his staff above his head proudly. He began to run, his flock tumbling after him.

"Ha ha! My boy!" The strong baritone voice carried with it a share of fatherly pleasure and joy at seeing his son. They embraced.

Father took the staff in his hands and inspected it closely, humming and rubbing his hands up and down its length.

"You've done a fine job, my son. This staff will serve you well for many years to come. Not a splinter to be found! I'm so proud of you!"

Arnon blushed, but he couldn't hold back a beaming smile. "I wanted it to be just like yours, Abba!"

The man chuckled. "This staff is much finer than mine was when I first made it." He hefted his own rod lovingly, and a distant look came into his eyes. Memories of many years flashed through his mind. Unbidden, a thought entered and commanded his attention.

He saw a man, bruised, beaten, his humble raiment torn and drenched in blood. He saw the man, ordinary and yet remarkable enough that he could have pointed him out in a crowd of millions, carry a heavy, rough-hewn beam. He saw the man nailed to it, and hung from a tall scaffold. Tears seeped from his eyes, knowing and yet unknowing of the significance of what he beheld.

"Papa. what's wrong?" Arnon asked softly, uncertain why his father was crying suddenly.

"Oh, my boy. Nothing is wrong—in fact, nothing could be less wrong! There is joy in the future, and I believe you may live to participate in it." The father, seeing once again, looked down at the lad before him. Then he spotted something just next to the small boy's foot, and bent down to pluck it up. He held in his hand a tiny fir sapling, just barely sprung from its seed.

"This will be your gift, my son. Grow this tree, and give freely of its bounty."

Arnon tenderly accepted the sapling. "What should I do with it?" He asked.

"Plant it and nurture it, and someday you will know what to do with it," his father replied, and turned to the flock. They were silent the rest of the night.

Years later, the boy was a man with a family of his own, still living in the same house. Fortune had smiled upon them, and he'd been able to expand the house and his flocks with the increase in prosperity. Life in ancient Judea was difficult, and he was full of gratitude for his blessings.