I’ve stood in this living room for three weeks now — long enough to learn the rhythms of this home, long enough to see what people often overlook. Trees like me don’t rush. We don’t multitask. We don’t worry about being impressive. We simply stand, rooted in the moment, paying attention.

And from where I stand, Christmas looks different than you think.

I’ve watched the lights flicker on each evening, not because someone remembered, but because someone needed the glow. There’s something about soft light that settles the heart — something about the way it fills the room without demanding anything in return. Humans don’t realize how much they crave that kind of gentleness.

I’ve watched people walk past me with arms full of bags, keys, and responsibilities. They move quickly, as if the world might fall apart if they slow down. But every now and then, one of them pauses — just for a breath — and looks at me. Not long, not dramatically, but long enough for their shoulders to drop. Long enough for their eyes to soften. Long enough for peace to slip in through the cracks.

That’s the thing about Christmas: peace rarely arrives with trumpets. It comes quietly, the way light fills a room — slowly, steadily, without asking permission.

The Ornaments Know Things Too

If you think I’m the only one paying attention, you should hear the ornaments talk.

There’s a little wooden angel who hangs near the top. She’s been around for years, and she’s wise in the way old things are wise. She says humans forget how much beauty they carry. They rush past mirrors, past moments, past each other — unaware that they shine far brighter than any ornament on my branches.

There’s a glass star that catches the light just right. It’s fragile, but it doesn’t apologize for it. It knows that being delicate doesn’t make it weak — it makes it precious. I wish humans understood that about themselves.

And then there’s the tiny bell near the bottom — the one that jingles every time someone walks by. It’s the most joyful thing in the room. It doesn’t wait for the “right moment” to ring. It rings because it can. Because joy doesn’t need permission either.

If you listen closely, everything in this room is trying to teach you something.

The Lights Have Their Own Story

The lights wrapped around my branches aren’t perfect. Some blink. Some stay steady. One flickers unpredictably, like it’s trying to decide who it wants to be. But together, they create something beautiful.

Humans often think they need to be consistent, polished, or put‑together to shine. But from where I stand, the beauty is in the mix — the steady ones, the bright ones, the quiet ones, the flickering ones. They don’t compete. They don’t compare. They simply glow.

If only humans knew how much light they carry, even on the days they feel dim.

The Gifts at My Feet

The gifts wrapped beneath me are interesting. They sit there quietly, waiting. They don’t worry about being opened. They don’t compare their wrapping paper. They don’t wonder if they’re enough.

They simply wait for the right moment.

Humans could learn from that too — the art of waiting without anxiety, the grace of trusting that the right moment will come.

Some gifts are big. Some are small. Some are wrapped neatly. Some look like they survived a wrestling match with tape. But none of that matters. What matters is the heart behind them — the thought, the love, the intention.

If humans could see themselves the way I see these gifts, they’d realize they’re far more valuable than they think.

The Room Itself Changes

I’ve noticed something else: the room changes during Christmas.

Not the furniture — that stays the same. But the atmosphere shifts. Conversations soften. Laughter lingers. People sit a little closer. They listen a little longer. They remember things they forgot during the rest of the year — like how much they love each other, how much they need each other, how much they’ve been carried through.

Christmas has a way of reminding humans of what matters most.

And from my corner of the room, I see it all.

What the Tree Wishes You Knew

If I could speak — really speak — here’s what I’d tell you:

You’re doing better than you think. You’re carrying more love than you realize. You shine in ways you don’t see. You matter more than you know.

And you don’t have to earn any of it.

Christmas isn’t asking you to be perfect. It’s inviting you to be present. To breathe. To notice. To receive the peace that’s been trying to reach you all along.

You don’t need to rush. You don’t need to prove anything. You don’t need to hold everything together.

Just stand still for a moment — the way I do — and let the light find you.

A Coaching Moment From the Tree

If I were your coach — a very tall, very quiet, very evergreen coach — here’s what I’d ask you:

Where is peace trying to reach you this season? What are you rushing past that deserves your attention? What light is flickering in you that you’ve been ignoring? What gift — inside you — is waiting to be opened?

Christmas isn’t just a season. It’s an invitation.

An invitation to slow down. To soften. To see differently. To lead yourself gently. To let God draw near in the quiet corners of your life.

Closing the Story

So this year, as you move through the season, try seeing Christmas through different eyes — the eyes of a tree, a light, an ornament, a quiet witness in the corner of the room.

You might be surprised by what you notice. You might be surprised by what you feel. You might be surprised by what God is already doing in you.

Merry Christmas, friend. May you see the season — and yourself — with new eyes.

Thanks for stopping by the fire,
Coach Dennis

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