Our new home was a tiny town on the prairie where the wind whipped the snow into bullets, and with Christmas approaching, it wasn’t the weather on our minds. All we could think about were the things we were greatly missing.

Sledding hills filled with laughter. Ice skating on ponds. Epic parties with friends who came in packs like crayons.

The new town was nothing like the old home. No hills, no ponds. And friends came in packs of one or two.

Christmas seemed dismal. 

When it came time to get a Christmas tree, a local farmer offered to let us come on his land and search the tree line by the river.

Christmas hope soared.

One of my all-time favorite Christmas traditions was picking out a Christmas tree. With sleds and ice skates, we hiked through the woods looking for the perfect tree. We laughed, sledded, skated, and brought home our perfect tree.

When we went, the snow was barely an inch thick, and the hills weren’t sledding hills. We plodded through the mud and cold looking for that perfect tree.