A Christmas Reflection: Embracing Joy and Belonging

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Every Christmas morning of my childhood, I would awaken early, tune in my clock radio, and quietly listen to the familiar carols that filled the air. Eagerly, I would rush downstairs to my family room, squeeze behind the television, and gaze through the narrow window of our retro-style home to catch a glimpse of our neighbors’ festive tree. The Johnson family, devout Catholics, would gather their numerous children around the tree, creating an idyllic scene that ignited feelings of envy within me. My memory, clouded by time, suggests they had nearly a dozen children, but it was likely closer to five or eight.

As I watched those blonde-haired teenagers unwrap gifts of vinyl records, cozy sweaters, and colorful socks, I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of deity would condemn me to a life devoid of such joyous celebrations. My answer came quickly: it was the same one who commanded Abraham to sacrifice his only son.

With age—around eight or nine—I grew bolder. I would don my winter coat over my pajamas, sneak outside, and stand in the narrow space between our houses, partially hidden by a shrub, longing for the quintessential American Christmas experience that felt forever out of reach. Sheila and Janet Johnson, the youngest of the Johnson clan, were undeniably cool. Even now, I find myself reminiscing about Sheila, our favorite babysitter, and how I always tried to mimic her effortless style. Janet, as soon as she was old enough, taught my sisters and me the lyrics to the “Coconut” song, her infectious spirit encouraging us as we raced toy cars in our basement.

One fateful Christmas morning, Sheila spotted me peering into her family’s home and beckoned me to join them. Initially, I feigned invisibility, but I quickly realized that this fantasy was no longer tenable. Reluctantly, I walked around to their back door and stepped into the Christmas celebration I had long imagined but thought unattainable.

To my surprise, it surpassed my wildest dreams. Christmas carols filled the air, and Mrs. Johnson had adorned their tree with candy canes, offering me one to enjoy before breakfast. I marveled at the joyous unwrapping of gifts—a football for one of the boys—and soon found myself outside, participating in a spontaneous game on their lawn. The exhilaration I felt was akin to a devoted Giants fan being called to play quarterback against their fiercest rivals.

As years passed, my life changed. I moved to Paris and, as the only Jewish photographer in my agency, I worked every Christmas, allowing others to celebrate with their families. At 24, I married a man from a Yeshiva who was resolute in his beliefs, refusing to entertain the notion of a Christmas tree in our home. I didn’t feel strongly enough about it to challenge him.

Twenty-three Christmases without a tree came and went. Then, following my husband’s departure, I welcomed two roommates to help with rent and childcare. One was a Christmas enthusiast, bringing boxes of decorations, while the other, mourning his late husband, yearned for a black-themed Christmas tree. I found myself agreeing to get a tree at last.

However, as I ventured to the corner lot to buy a tree, I discovered that once it was set up in our living room, it was just a tree—pleasant-smelling, yes, but lacking the enchantment of the Johnsons’ tree. My children had no emotional ties to it, so it remained a mere object, devoid of meaning. A Christmas tree must evoke memories and emotions tied to family and tradition, much like the Shabbat candles we light on Friday nights or the carols I secretly enjoyed in my youth.

We did add some candy canes to our tree and opened a few presents, but it felt disingenuous, as if we were impostors in a celebration rather than genuine participants. After the gift unwrapping, I invited my roommates to join me for our customary Jewish Christmas: dim sum in Chinatown followed by a movie marathon.

Now, I find myself contemplating whether to get a tree for this upcoming Christmas. My eight-year-old has been pleading for one, and I might relent for the sake of aesthetics and his happiness. Nevertheless, I remain ambivalent.

However, one experience I will not miss is attending Suzzy Roche’s annual charity concert at the Church of St. Paul and St. Andrew in New York, where she sings Christmas music every December. This year, she performed alongside her daughter and ex-husband, and I brought an old friend, both of us navigating recent heartbreaks. Suzzy remarked that Christmas is a time of joy, yet for many, it can also bring feelings of loneliness and loss.

As she performed a poignant tribute to a late friend, Rob, I was transported back to the warmth of the Johnson family’s living room. I realized that it was never truly about the tree; it was about the love surrounding it, whether it stemmed from a Christmas tree, a menorah, or a gathering of friends. “Everyone wants to be loved,” she sang, a universal truth that resonated deeply, transcending any specific holiday.

In summary, the essence of Christmas lies not in the material aspects but in the connections we forge with others. The love and belonging we seek are what truly matter, regardless of our backgrounds or traditions.