Every Christmas morning during my childhood, I would awaken, flick on my clock radio, and secretly indulge in the sounds of festive carols. Then, with all the stealth of a ninja, I’d sprint downstairs to our family room, squish my little self behind the TV, and peek through the one slim window of our retro-style home. My neighbors, the Johnsons—a lively Catholic family—were always a sight to behold. I vaguely recall a dozen kids around their Christmas tree, but a more realistic count was probably closer to five or eight.
I would watch those tall, blonde teens tear into gifts filled with vinyl records, colorful sweaters, funky shoes, bead necklaces, and sports gear, and I’d be filled with self-loathing and envy—wondering what kind of deity would sentence me to a life devoid of Christmas trees. I’d quickly answer my own question: the same god who asked Abraham to sacrifice his son.
As I grew up—maybe around 8 or 9—I took my curiosity a step further. I would don my winter coat over my pajamas and sneak outside, standing in the narrow space between the Johnsons’ house and mine, desperately yearning for that quintessential American holiday experience that felt forever out of reach.
The youngest Johnson girls, Sarah and Emily, were undeniably cool. Even now, I find myself wishing I could pull off jeans as effortlessly as Sarah, our go-to babysitter. Emily, once she started babysitting, taught us the lyrics to the infamous Coconut song; to this day, I can’t hear it without picturing her racing our Hot Wheels around the basement.
One Christmas morning, Sarah spotted me gazing into their living room and beckoned me inside. I pretended to be invisible at first, but I was well past the age where that delusion could hold up. Reluctantly, I walked around to the back of their house and entered a world I thought I could never access: Christmas.
It was even more enchanting than I had imagined. Christmas carols filled the air, and Mrs. Johnson had adorned the tree with candy canes, even letting me enjoy one before breakfast. I watched in awe as gifts were unwrapped; one of the Johnson boys got a football, and suddenly we were all sprinting outside for a game on their lawn. My joy was indescribable—like a Giants fan unexpectedly being called to play quarterback in a crucial game against the Cowboys.
Years passed, and I eventually moved to Paris. Initially, as the sole Jewish photographer in my agency, I worked every Christmas so my colleagues could celebrate with their families. At 24, I married a traditional Jewish man who wouldn’t even consider the idea of a Christmas tree in our home. It just wasn’t happening. And frankly, I didn’t care enough to persuade him otherwise.
Twenty-three Christmases rolled by without a hint of a tree. But last year, after my husband and I parted ways, I welcomed two roommates to help with childcare and rent. Jenna was downright obsessed with Christmas, lugging giant boxes of decorations around, while Tom, mourning the loss of his partner, became determined to have a Christmas tree adorned with black ornaments.
“Why not?” I thought. Finally, a chance to have a tree! So off we went to the tree lot, and when we brought that beauty home, it smelled delightful. But honestly, it was just a tree. It looked lovely all decorated, but it lacked the magic of the Johnsons’ tree, and my kids didn’t have any nostalgic ties to it. A tree needs to hold meaning beyond being a reminder of your childhood void. It should evoke family, tradition, and history—the way our Shabbat candles do on Friday nights or how those secretly played carols during my childhood still resonate with me.
We did hang candy canes on our tree, just like the Johnsons, and opened a few presents on Christmas morning. But it felt forced, like we were imposters. After tossing the wrapping paper into recycling, I suggested my roommates join us for our classic Jewish Christmas: dim sum in Chinatown followed by a movie marathon.
Now, as I ponder whether to get a tree this year, my eight-year-old is pleading for one, so I might just give in for his sake and the sake of aesthetics. But I’m torn. What if I don’t?
One thing I know for sure is I wouldn’t miss hearing my favorite artist, Mia Stone, perform Christmas carols at her annual charity concert in New York. This year, she sang with her daughter and a few friends. I invited a dear friend, both of us nursing fresh wounds from heartbreak. Mia noted that while Christmas is often depicted as a time of joy, it can also be a period filled with loneliness and sorrow.
At those words, my friend squeezed my hand, and I was reminded of my recent loss. Mia, a talented musician, sat at the piano, an instrument she claimed felt just as foreign to her as Christmas does to me. But she poured her heart into it, and as the music began—though not exactly a carol, it was a beautiful tribute to a recently departed friend—many of us were moved to tears. As they fell silently down my cheeks, I clutched my friend’s hand tightly, feeling transported back to the Johnsons’ living room, the only place where I had ever felt the true spirit of Christmas.
In the end, I realized that the tree was never the focus; it was the love shared amongst those gathered—whether around the tree, the menorah, or even a piano. “Everyone wants to be loved,” Mia sang, a sentiment that resonated deeply with us all, regardless of the holidays we celebrated.
In summary, this piece reflects on the author’s childhood longing for the Christmas experience, their unique encounters with the Johnson family, and the evolution of their relationship with the holiday over the years. It underscores the essence of love and connection, which transcends the material symbols of celebration.