Memories of Christmas trees parade through my mind during Advent. I grew up in Miami, where the yearly hunt for a perfect tree had the whole family attired in Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. We climbed into my father’s spacious Oldsmobile with fancy fins and headed to the tree lot.

Once there, my sister and I made a game of playing hide-and-seek among the trees, while my father launched into the serious business of finding a tree and getting a good deal. Once he located a candidate, he began bargaining with the tree guy, who was energetically chewing on the end of a cigar.

My father knew better than to praise the tree and shot a warning glance at my sister and myself, lest we get too enthusiastic about its appearance. He frowned as he mentioned a branch that was drooping and needles that shook off the tree like fleas when he moved it.

The tree guy evidently wanted to sell trees as quickly as possible, since the humid weather in Miami could wreak havoc on his wares. A price was agreed upon, and my father handed over the cash.

Back at home, there were definite alterations waiting to be made. For one, the trunk was too fat to fit into the metal holder, so Dad had to patiently use his saw to carve away the excess bark. Meanwhile, my mother placed a large piece of white fabric dotted with rhinestones on the floor, which would serve as snow-covered ground.

Then came the moment of actually positioning the tree in the corner of the living room, so the best side would take pride of place.

While my father moved the tree, my mother helped with directions. “A little to the left,” she’d say. “Now to the right. Oh, wait, that’s too far.”

Once the tree was finally in place, my father began the tedious process of untangling the lights. It was a mystery how the strings of lights, which had been carefully put away the year before, somehow managed to tie themselves into knots. To my father’s credit, he untangled the lights without uttering any forbidden words, although he might have muttered some phrases in Italian.

Next, he climbed a ladder and wrapped the lights around the tree, while my mother stood by nervously: “Be careful — that ladder isn’t very steady.”

Invariably, one light would not cooperate, and then he would have to tighten all the bulbs. Finally, the lights were all aglow, and my sister and I could barely contain ourselves. We waited with bated breath until Mom announced, “All right, girls, let’s decorate it!” Then, almost on cue, my sister and I would start arguing over who got to hang certain favorite ornaments.

I’m amazed today to realize that during an event as potentially heart-warming as tree-trimming, my sister and I still managed to squabble. We knew Christ had come to bring peace, but we figured this didn’t apply to trimming the tree. Our relationship had been contentious ever since the day Mom had brought me home from the hospital and showed the new baby to my sister. One of my tiny hands dangled in front of my sister’s face and she couldn’t resist taking a bite.

Amid the decorating, our mother gave us “the look,” which meant we had better stop arguing or we’d be sorry, and we suddenly turned into angelic children. We unearthed each of the ornaments from the little cardboard boxes that had special compartments for each delicate orb. We were thrilled about the angel, which our father placed atop the tree. Then our mom opened the box of tinsel, and we took the thin strands of flashing silver and placed them carefully on the limbs.

Finally, Mom gently placed the crèche beneath the tree with the Baby Jesus statue nestling in the manger. Some people placed the Baby there on Christmas Eve, but we liked having him there right from the start. My sister and I loved the animals and would remove them later to play with them, although we kept that a secret from our mom. We also didn’t tell her that we allowed our pet turtles to wander freely on the snowy cloth beneath the tree and join the crowd of animals “worshipping” the depicted Newborn King.

At night, when the room was pitch black, I’d lie beneath the tree, look up into the branches festooned with lights and dream about the future. Who would I become when I grew up? What would Christmas be like then?

I couldn’t have foreseen that, many years hence, I’d have an apartment in Atlanta and my very own tree. Nor could I predict that my big tomcat, Funky, would one night climb into the branches and knock the entire thing down.

Nor did I anticipate that someday I’d be decorating a small “Charlie Brown” tree with my husband, who’d give me a handmade ornament each year. This was the same fellow who surprised me on a walk by stopping beneath a tree harboring mistletoe and kissing me.

Each year when I take out the little tree, I marvel at the ornaments he made me. I have a cloth that I place beneath the tree and tiny lights that brighten the dark nights leading up to Christmas. So far, my latest tomcat, Fuzzy, hasn’t knocked the tree over, although I see him gazing at it longingly now and again, perhaps planning an attack.

The trees from childhood and adulthood merge into one, as do other rituals. The cups of rich eggnog, my mother’s homemade biscotti, the corsages made with ribbons and bells are all part of the enduring landscape of Christmas. I can almost hear my mother telling me how to best position the tree and imagine the scent of her special cookies baking. My parents and my husband are gone, but my little tree stands as a testament to their love.

My sister and I eventually made a truce and stopped squabbling over the tree-trimming, and my mother discovered the turtles wandering in the crèche, but much to our surprise, she forgave us.

Christmas trees are evergreen to remind us that, despite the bleakness of winter, we can discover love and life in the outstretched arms of the Baby in the manger. The trees are an eternal reminder that with God all things are possible.