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T WAS December, and I was a stranger in a strange land. There was no snow on the ground--there seldom is in the desert--and "Merry Christmas" wasn't heard much on the ancient cobbled streets. For I was in Jerusalem, it was 1986, and the birth of Jesus Christ was most decidedly not front and center in the public realm.
There were no presents under the tree. There was no tree. Why would there be? I was an American student living in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City.
The Middle East ain't the first place you think of when you talk about pine trees.
This was the land of someone else's religion now, someone else's customs. I was fine with that, even though I missed the warmth of Christmas carols and the frenzied excitement that came with the traditions back in the States.
There were Christians in Jerusalem, of course, but they spoke a series of different languages--some Greek Orthodox, some Armenian, and even some Arabic or Hebrew. If they were saying something about the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, or the birth of the savior of the world, I didn't catch it.
It triggered reflection, it did. All the cliches of Christmas being about more than gifts or tinsel were coming home to roost. Because like it or not, I was going to see if Christmas for me was really about the superficial, or about divine birth.
And then someone told me about the trees.
At one of the city gates--the Old City is surrounded by walls, with random gates--free Christmas trees were being handed out. I can't remember if it was Damascus Gate or Jaffa Gate anymore. One of them, anyway. All you had to do was show up, and they would give you a Christmas tree.
Cliched or not, I wanted a tree. At the designated time and place, a friend and I walked through that beautiful and wondrous city, and sure enough, there were a couple of guys handing out pine trees in the land of milk and honey.
These Christmas trees weren't Charlie Brown caliber, exactly, but there wasn't any problem with an excess of pine needles, either. It didn't matter. It was a Christmas tree, and it smelled like a Christmas tree, and though I knew it was petty it made the season that much more vivid.
Superficial? Probably.
Then came the problem of getting it back to the apartment. Nothing makes one feel more self-conscious than dragging a Christmas tree through the streets of an ancient city filled with Jews and Muslims and Christians of a different stripe.
As we went along, a kindly Jewish man with a yarmulke saw our struggles, and helped us. I spoke enough Hebrew to say "thanks very much," and he enough English to say "Merry Christmas."
A Jew helping a Christian, in the land of Abraham, in the era of the Uzi. Not a bad bridging of worlds.
Finally, it was up the stairs and into the flat. Christmas in Jerusalem would be special no matter what, but this was a touch of home. It smelled like Christmas ought to smell.
On Christmas Eve, surprise No. 2 came knocking on the door. The two little boys from upstairs were there, with a small cake with a birthday candle in it. Why not? It's Jesus' birthday, they must have reasoned. So Mom had made a cake for her downstairs American neighbor.
The boys were shy and sweet and handed me the cake and said in Hebrew some variation of "Merry Christmas." I thanked them, and suddenly it all made sense.
It was Christmas, all right. It was about peace on Earth, and goodwill toward men.
Even for a stranger in a strange land.
DAVE SMALLEY is Op-Ed/Viewpoints editor for The Free Lance-Star.
