The Christmas Wreath

The Christmas Wreath



In Switzerland, one of the many traditions of Christmas is the Advent Wreath. The wreath is made from real pine clippings wired to a ring of straw. Four candles are then placed on the ring. A candle is lit every Sunday, beginning on the first Sunday in December. By the time Christmas arrives, all four candles are lit. The first one has become short and squashed, because it was the first to know the destructive power of flame. The others rise in successive heights until the fourth one, the last one lit, stands proud and tall compared to her shorter sisters.

Ever since I’ve been living in the Swiss village of Hettlingen, five years now, I’ve made our Christmas wreath myself at a special wreath-making course given by Karen, my neighbor. The fact that my artistic talent in the past has been limited to stick figures has never stopped me. My attendance at this course also serves to amuse my other neighbors who accompany me, since in five years I still haven’t gotten the hang of wreath-making. It was at the first of these sessions that I first coined the word ‘bushigkeit’, unable to think of the German word for ‘bushy’. I hope that this word will soon be appearing in a dictionary near you, as we have adopted it to describe our wreaths. For example: “This side of my wreath certainly has more ‘bushigkeit’ than the other; I wonder if there’s a way to even it out?”

I cannot figure out why I still go to this wreath-making course. I had been calling it ‘The-Stupid-Wreath-Making-Course-that-I-Definitely-Won’t-Go-To-This-Year’ for months beforehand. It certainly wasn’t to save money, because for the cost of the course plus the candles and other materials, one can easily buy a wreath at the local gardener’s. Maybe I only do it because these other women do it, but since when does being in the ‘in’ crowd involve sap-stained fingers and parched wire hands?

The last week of November 2001 was especially frigid. The light of the stars seemed sharper than normal. My neighbor Irene and I walked quickly to avoid becoming frozen, our breath trailing behind us and then disappearing up to the sky. We chatted aimlessly about children and school, topics that would remain in discussion throughout the entire wreath-making session. Politics and larger world issues are subjects not discussed among Hettlingen women, but I have gotten used to that and was content to be carried along on the waves of their conversational flow.

There was nothing unusual about the evening, really. Karen, our slave driver, offered us hot tea as an encouragement at the midway point, as in: “This tea is really good. Warm in the belly. Now, get back to work!” There was nothing magic about the wreath I produced, either. At least not then. I was the last one finished, as usual, and it was uneven, as always. Too much bushigkeit on one side. I had chosen candles the color of frozen tears, and threaded silver strands among the pine needles. It had been produced by a woman who had lost her Christmas spirit, who was vaguely discontent in general and not even able to give one good solid reason why she was making a wreath in the first place.

At 11:00 p.m. I was back home and woke my husband up to show him my creation. He muttered something that could have been ‘beautiful’ but could have also been ‘I’m trying to sleep’. Still not quite sure. I put this pine-y child of mine outside, so the warmth of the house would not lead to a premature needle loss, and went to sleep myself.

Every consecutive Sunday after that we brought the wreath inside and lit a candle. By the time we got down to the last Sunday, the first one we had lit was burned down almost to the pines. It was late afternoon; the Great Present-Opening Festival was still two days away. I had one arm around my daughter and the other around my son. We sat on the couch and watched the flames flicker for a while, but then the children got bored. They wanted to go make a snowman, and seeing that on this one year we would be given a real white Christmas instead of a brown and muddy one, I said ‘yes’. I shoved their unruly limbs into uncooperative items of clothing and shooed them outside. A sudden quiet descended on the room. Anyone who has children will know what I mean. It was in this silence that I started to hear the voices.

At first I thought I was crazy. When I figured out where the voices were coming from, I was convinced of it. My lopsided, bushigkeit-in-the-wrong-places wreath was speaking. More accurately, it was the candles that were speaking.

I still have no idea what could have caused this to happen. Inanimate objects do not usually spontaneously combust into life around me. Perhaps it was the weather, the particularly Christmas-y cold snap we had been experiencing. Or the casual, unappreciated camaraderie of the evening on which it was created imparted some magic that I had been too numb to see. I still don’t know why it started speaking, but I knew that if my wreath had something to say to me, that I probably should listen.

The first candle, the one we had just lit said, “My name is PEACE. There has been too much war in this past year. You were right, no one was able to hear the Christmas bells above the cry of the bomb raid siren.” There was a sudden rush of cold air in the room, and the candle named PEACE went out.

The second tallest one spoke. “My name is FAITH. I cannot exist anymore because of the horrible things people have done to each other in the name of God this year.” With that, she went out as well.

Then the third one spoke. “My name is LOVE. I, too, have seen things this year. No one has any love for their unknown brothers, the stranger so much like themselves, with a mother and father, brothers, sisters, children, family and friends.” She gave a final sad flicker and died.

“No!” I shouted, and went over to look at each candle. Their burnt and tortured wicks were solifying in the cooling wax. I tried to pull the wicks out with my fingers, but they broke into black pieces on my fingertips. I have to dig them out, I thought, and ran to get my trusty Swiss Army Knife. At that point, the children came back in just in time to see their crazy mother attacking the candles on the wreath with a knife.

“Mommy, I thought you liked your wreath,” my son said. “Why are you trying to kill it?”

“You don’t understand. The candles went out. I have to get them lit again. For me, for you both, for just everybody.”

“No, you don’t,” my daughter said. “Don’t you see? The littlest one is still burning.” I looked, and sure enough, she was right. I had overlooked that one in my panic about the others. Then the littlest candle spoke, surprising both children into a very rare silence.

“Don’t forget about me,” it said. “My name is HOPE. And as long as I am still burning, you can relight the others.”