“But I don’t know how to buy a Christmas tree,” lamented the Jewish Mr. Chattering.

“You’ll do fine, honey, just buy one that’s seven or eight feet high and don’t pay too much for it.”

“I’m not Christian!”

“But this helps me so much!” I said, shoving him out the door. “Just have them put the tree into the car’s back seat.”

Later, the door bell rang, and the eldest Chat son exalted: “We got a tree! And we got a good deal!”

I let them in, smiling broadly–oh, joyful tidings!–until I saw that the tree’s trunk looked incredibly dry and pale.

“Did you get them to saw off the end?” I asked, failing to conceal my nervousness. Like a flower, a cut tree forms a scab of sap at the base, and sawing off the end of the trunk at purchase enables the tree to stay fresh.

“Huh? Nooooo,” says Mr. Chattering, stomping back to the car, which was double parked in the street, still blinking. “By the way, you made this as hard as possible for me by leaving all that junk in the trunk!” He’s not much good at concealing his displeasure either.

“Oh, the car’s trunk was a mess! Why didn’t you put the tree in the back seat?” I called after him.

“It wouldn’t fit!” Mr. Chattering shouted back in a huff, now hauling racket ball rackets and more sporting equipment displaced from the trunk, back into it. Gear was falling into the street. And he seemed rather furious with me.

Younger Chat and I turned to the tree, and carefully dragged it deeper into the living room. As it moved, evergreen needles scattered everywhere with prancing, sprinkling pinging sounds.

“Gosh, this is the driest tree I’ve ever seen,” I muttered, thinking the tree was cheap because was cut in October. Or something.

“Mom, look at this,” young Chat whispered as he gently brushed the tree’s branches with a broom and more dry needles rained down with little plinks and pings. He rolled his eyes in a judgmental way.

“Well, don’t criticize your father! Whatever you do, don’t criticize your father. He tried very hard to find a good tree for us.” I peered out the front window to watch my darling husband, putting displaced, disorganized books and belongings back into the trunk, grumbling in his misery, pine needles everywhere.

In our dual-faith family, everybody stretches and grows, sometimes beyond our own comfort level. I am a Presbyterian learning to pray in Hebrew. And Mr. Chattering, someone who often writes about Judaism and Christianity, has just purchased his first Christmas tree by himself.

“It’s a fine tree. Look there are no gaps between the branches!” I exclaimed in front of the whole family.

It’s still crooked in its stand, but we’ll fix that. I’m thinking this tree needed us.