When Love Waited Under the Tree

This past Christmas, the gifts sat under my tree long after the season had passed.

I had bought them carefully – each one chosen with intention. Something thoughtful for my daughter. Something practical for my son-in-law. Little things I imagined lighting up my grandchildren’s faces. I wrapped them gently, tied the ribbons, and placed them beneath the tree as if everything were normal.

But nothing was normal.

I have been estranged from them for almost a year. A year of silence. A year of wondering. A year of missing ordinary moments that once felt so familiar. When Christmas came, it carried not just tradition and celebration, but grief. The gifts beneath the tree felt heavy with meaning. They represented love I still carried, even if I didn’t know how it would be received.

As the days passed, I found myself paralyzed. What do you do with presents when you don’t know if you are welcome? Do you drop them quietly at the door? Do you mail them and risk them being returned? Do you hold onto them to avoid the sting of rejection?

For a month, I did nothing.

The tree stayed up long after it should have been taken down. The lights glowed softly each night, almost like a quiet vigil over hope. Every time I walked past, I felt the ache in my chest. I couldn’t bear to box everything up. The presents felt like a decision waiting to be made, and I wasn’t ready to face what that decision might bring.

Part of me feared that if I sent them, they would come back unopened. I imagined the embarrassment of seeing the packages returned to my doorstep. I worried about being judged – for reaching out, for overstepping, for trying. Even the thought of shipping them one town over felt humiliating. It seemed so small geographically and yet so vast relationally. I imagined the questions in the post office. I imagined the silent commentary. I imagined explaining something I didn’t have words for.

But eventually, I knew I couldn’t let fear dictate my obedience any longer.

After a month of staring at those gifts, I packed them carefully into shipping boxes. My hands trembled more than I expected. Driving to the post office felt strangely heavy, like I was carrying more than cardboard and tape. I was carrying vulnerability.

Standing at the counter, I felt exposed. The address was only one town away. It would have been easier, I thought, if it were across the country. Shipping them so close made the distance between us feel even more painful. I braced myself for embarrassment, for imagined judgment.

But when the woman behind the counter entered the address into the system and her eyes met mine, something unexpected happened. There was no judgment. No curiosity. Just compassion. Her expression softened in a way that felt almost knowing. She didn’t ask unnecessary questions. She didn’t make small talk. She simply processed the shipment with a quiet kindness that steadied me.

In that brief exchange, I felt seen, not exposed.

I realized then how much of my fear had been built on imagined reactions. I had rehearsed rejection so many times in my mind that I forgot God could meet me even in small, ordinary places – like a post office counter.

Trusting God in that moment didn’t mean I suddenly felt confident about the outcome. I still didn’t know how the gifts would be received. I still didn’t know whether reconciliation would follow. But I knew I could not allow fear to paralyze my love.

Love sometimes requires movement without guarantees. It requires releasing outcomes we cannot control. I could not repair a year of estrangement with presents. But I could choose to act from love rather than self-protection.

Taking down the Christmas tree afterward felt symbolic. The season had passed. The packages were out of my hands. The outcome belonged to God.

I do not know how this story will fully unfold. I do not know when or how restoration may come. But I know this: obedience is mine; results are His. Fear may speak loudly, but it does not get the final word.

Sometimes faith looks like driving one town over in your heart, even when your body stays still. Sometimes courage looks like shipping a box and entrusting what it represents to God.

And sometimes, grace meets you in the quiet compassion of a stranger’s eyes, reminding you that you are not alone as you learn to love anyway.

What situation in your life currently feels paralyzing because of fear of rejection or misunderstanding? In what ways might fear be influencing your decisions more than faith right now? How has holding onto “what should have been” affected your ability to accept what currently is? Please share in the comments.