My White Grandma (my dad’s mom) would typically wait for us to get to her house before she put up her Christmas tree. As I’ve come to realize, now having siblings and friends who are grandparents, she waited for her grandson because her joy was magnified by my joy. If you will allow it, joy is an exponential multiplier with an infectious reach and eternal influencer.

White Grandma, so called because both my father and my mother’s last names were Mullins before they married and her house was the color white. And no, my parents did not grow up in the same house! White Grandma would wait if she knew I was coming before Christmas so I could go with my dad and siblings and cut her Christmas tree in the holler below she and Grandpa’s house. I loved this ‘job’ and took it very seriously, committed to finding the perfectly shaped tree that would fit nicely in my grandparents little home. Their home being a converted one room schoolhouse that they called home until God called them home.

We called the little trees ‘scrub’ cedars and I have come to learn that they are also called Eastern Red Cedar. These trees seemed to grow anywhere, needing minimal soil and even growing out of rock outcroppings. To me, they were God’s amazing gift of a Christmas tree, given to celebrate the birth of his son, Jesus. The ideal tree was 4’ – 6’ tall and somewhat thin, so as not to take up too much room.

I can remember the smell of those trees, freshly cut and now positioned in Grandma’s (and Grandpa’s) house. I remember Grandma teaching me to put the ornaments deeper into the branches because these little scrub cedars outer branches were thin and could not hold the weight. I loved the decorating because of the stories told. Stories of prior Christmases. Of good times. Hard times. Of God’s faithfulness through every season. I love how Grandma would always find a way to slip the Christmas story into the decorating. I learned it well.

White Grandma was an encourager. I guess that I was the best tree decorator who ever lived. Every time we would finish decorating, she would step back and after a few moments of viewing day and with absolutely conviction say, “well, I reckon that is the most beautiful tree that I have ever seen.” Bingo. Nailed it!

“I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, dwells in you as well.” 2 Timothy 1:5 (ESV)

I’m sure that holler below Brindle Ridge outside Mt. Vernon, KY still offers those free gifts of Christmas trees. I know Jesus’ dad still grows them because he knows the joy and remembrance they delivered to Erma Mullins and her grandson, Myron. You see, life has taught me that the simplest of moments typically delivered to grandest of memories. That joy does indeed come in the morning when a heart is focused on the Savior of the World, who came on that cold night in Bethlehem to a World that was desperate for him. Even when there was no room at any inn.

Megan puts up marvelously beautiful Christmas trees for our family each year. Our house is decorated in warmth and love. We count down the days to Jesus birth with great anticipation and joy. Our homes celebrated this greatest of all Seasons. Yet, in all this amazing surrounding, that little scrub cedar in the corner of that little white house will always remain too beautiful to comprehend in this old little boy’s memories.

“Grandchildren are the crown of the aged, and the glory of children is their fathers.” Proverbs 17:6 (ESV)