If I hadn’t been driving my four-wheeler, checking on the far fields of our family’s 40-acre Christmas tree farm, what I saw that day last November would have brought me to my knees. Not in prayer, either, unless wordless despair counted as prayer.
Rows and rows of brown, dried-up trees stretched as far as my eyes could see. Trees that were supposed to have lush, green piney boughs. Trees that were supposed to be chosen by excited families in just a few weeks. Trees that were supposed to bring home the magic of Christmas.
I knew it wasn’t going to be a good year for us. After all, we’d had triple-digit temperatures and the worst drought in centuries here in Texas. Even with my wife, Karen, and me working—and praying—harder than ever, I figured we’d lose some trees. But this was worse than I’d expected. Way worse.
I forced myself to go through row by row, and count. Three hundred dead trees. And a thousand dead saplings. Christmas was coming, but not for Tinsel Time Christmas Tree Farm. How could we possibly open for the season?
It was hard to believe that just a few years earlier our farm seemed like a dream come true. A dream that was born when our three kids, now grown, were little.
Christmas was our absolute favorite holiday, and we always kicked off the season by taking the kids to a farm to cut down our very own tree. They’d run around, giggling and inspecting the evergreens.
“I found the perfect tree!” one of the kids would say. “No, I found it!” said another. “Nope, guys, I’ve got it!” said the third. Karen and I would laugh right along with them. In the end, we’d go home with a tree all of us were sure was just the right one.
In 2000, I asked the old-timer in charge of that farm what it was like to run the business. “Well, it’s a heap of work!” he said. “And you’ll never get rich. But for one month a year, you get to help Santa. Can’t beat that.”
That got Karen and me thinking. Or I should say, dreaming. By then our kids were teenagers. What if we ran our own Christmas tree farm when we became empty nesters?
We’d give folks the kind of experience that holiday memories are made of—precious moments with their families, the anticipation of finding just the right tree, and the sweet, sweet magic of Christmas.
Karen and I were no strangers to hard work. We’d cleared our five-acre lot in the country north of Houston where we’d built our home and barn while holding down full-time jobs. Karen was in sales for an oil field safety equipment dealer, and I was an engineering technician.
We took to talking about our dream farm whenever the stresses of daily life got to us. “It’ll be beautiful,” Karen would say, “and we’ll work with our whole family. We’ll bring folks the same joy we felt finding the perfect tree.”
“Someday,” I said. “Someday…” Then I would silently add, Lord, if we’re meant to have our very own Christmas tree farm, please open the doors for us.
Less than a year later, the owners of the 35-acre plot behind ours offered it to us for a bargain price—a third of the market value. The property was in a flood plain, perfect for growing evergreens. Our “someday” had arrived, so much sooner than we’d dreamed, that it had to be a sign from God.
Still, Karen and I were careful. We hung onto our jobs. We worked the land ourselves, clearing it little by little. Then we planted 2,000 trees. Saplings that we nurtured year after year—raising evergreens is kind of like raising children—until they grew into mature, beautiful Christmas trees.
Finally, in 2008, after eight years of hard work, Tinsel Time Christmas Tree Farm opened for business. It was a family affair just like we’d imagined. Our kids, along with my brothers, my parents and our nieces and nephews helped out.
We dressed like elves and stood by the side of the road waving a banner that read, “Chop down your own Christmas tree!” We drew people in with marshmallow roasts and hayrides in a red-and-white sleigh.
Business was great! After the first year, Karen and I both took early retirement and sunk all of our spare time and cash into the farm.
But by year three, the economy had totally bottomed out and fewer folks were showing up to find their perfect tree. We were putting more money into our farm than we were making. Karen’s company let her come back and I picked up part-time electronics work.
“Things will work out,” Karen said. “The economy will pick up and people will want their trees.” That was Karen. Always positive, always optimistic.
“How can you be so sure?” I said.
“We’ll pray about it,” she said. And we did.
Then the drought hit. We didn’t have an irrigation system because our land was on a flood plain, so I resorted to hand-watering the trees and saplings with five-gallon buckets and old hoses donated from the fire department.
But all that effort got us was hundreds of dead trees.
I hopped off my four-wheeler and yanked out my chainsaw. I sliced through the withered trunks. With each tree that fell, my spirits plummeted even further. So much for families getting a magical experience this year. Did God even care about this little tree farm that was our big dream?
That night after dinner Karen and I walked the back pasture and checked the trees there, our feet kicking up a cloud of dust.
“Look what’s left here,” I said, running my hand over a branch. Rustcolored needles dropped to the ground.
“You know, some people like Charlie Brown Christmas trees,” Karen said.
“Maybe,” I said. “But…” I could hardly get out the rest of the words. I hung my head. “I just don’t see how we can open this Christmas. People will get the wrong idea with our trees looking so bad. Then they won’t come back next year.”
“David, we’ve waited all year for this,” Karen said. “Closing can’t be our only option. There just has to be another way.”
“What other way?” I said. “We have a farm full of dead trees!”
Karen grabbed my hand. “I heard some farms ordered Fraser firs from North Carolina. Pre-cut. We’d only make a small profit, but at least it’s something for people to buy.”
Pre-cut? “You’ve got to be kidding!” I practically shouted.
Our business was based on the magical experience of people coming here to ramble through a maze of evergreens then chop down their very own Christmas tree. Where was the magic in a pre-cut tree?
Besides, there were tree lots all over Houston. No one needed to come clear out to the country to get a pre-cut tree.
“It’s better than closing,” Karen said. “Think about it.” She kissed me on the cheek and headed back to the house.
The sun dipped close to the horizon as I wandered through the evergreens, talking to God. Lord, I thought you gave us this dream to bring joy to people. Is our dream as dead as our trees? Were we just plain wrong about all this?
Early the next morning, before it got too hot, I took the four-wheeler out again to survey the rest of our trees. I pulled a parched sapling out of the ground. Its roots were so shallow, I barely had to tug. I shook the dirt off and threw it in my trash bucket.
Then, a little farther over, near the creek, I noticed a flash of green. The trees here were healthy, taller and fuller than the others. They were surviving the drought. But how? I wondered, glancing once more at the pathetic sapling I’d tossed in my bucket.
I walked over to one of the green trees, rubbed some needles between my fingers. That heady piney scent…I drew it deep into my lungs. I ran my hands over the trunk, shook it gently. Not as thick as it might have been in a normal year, but sturdy. This tree was firmly rooted.
That’s when it occurred to me. The drought had weeded out the trees that couldn’t take the extreme conditions. These survivors were the ones that had adapted to the heat, the wind, the lack of rain. They dug their roots deep and drew nourishment from the moist earth below the surface.
Could that be what I needed to do? This dream had been rooted in my faith. Did I need to dig deeper into that rich, nourishing soil?
Okay, God, you gave us this dream. I’ve got to trust that you’ll give us what we need to keep it alive. If that meant pre-cut trees this year, well, that’s just what we’d have to do.
I raced the four-wheeler up to the house. “Karen!” I shouted. “I’m in! Precut trees, it is!” She ran out and hugged me tight.
The morning after Thanksgiving, I drove our red-and-white sleigh out of the barn and prepped it for holiday hayrides. Karen popped in a CD and carols rang out from the speakers I’d installed in the treetops.
My brothers built a campfire for marshmallow roasts and our kids watched our four grandchildren climb on huge rolls of hay. Our family was ready!
Morning came and went. No one showed. I got so anxious I hopped on the tractor and drove around the fields for a while. We dug deep, Lord. The rest is totally in your hands.
Within minutes a car pulled up. Two kids ran toward our field of evergreens. I climbed off the tractor and donned my elf hat. Another family came. Then another. By afternoon folks from all over had shown up—more than we’d expected.
“We don’t usually come out this way,” one man told us. “But the tree lots in town are real low this year. Boy, are we thankful to have found your farm. Without you we never would’ve found our perfect tree.” Soon our precut supply was gone. We even had to place a second order!
Yes, Christmas came at Tinsel Time Christmas Tree Farm. When your faith is deeply rooted, it always does.
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