The History of Christmas Trees in 9 Merry Short Stories

Explore the history of Christmas trees through nine short stories and let’s be merry time traveling from ancient Rome and Dacia to the Druids and Saint Boniface, through medieval Germany and the Baltic Renaissance. Follow the journey under the glow of Martin Luther’s candles, which also adorned royal Christmas trees, and even hear whispers of those hidden under Romania’s Communist regime. Let us celebrate light and birth on one of the longest and most magical nights of the year.

A Sprig of Fir in Ancient Rome and Dacia

The boy’s laughter bounced through the atrium as he ran, clutching a sprig of fir, dodging his mother’s exasperated grasp.
“Marcus, the wreath is for the doorway!” she chided, her voice light despite her furrowed brow. Beside her, Lucius, her husband, knelt by the household altar twining evergreen boughs into a garland. The pine scent mingled with the warm promise of baking honeyed cakes, a sign that Saturnalia was near.
“It’s for keeping ghosts out!” Marcus countered, his voice defiant. “And malefica!”
Diana and Lucius exchanged a knowing look, the story of the strange wolf who attacked their neighbor’s sheep under the last full moon still alive in their memory.
Marcus darted past his father, brushing against a bowl of dried figs meant for the feast, slowing just enough to dig for one. His mother sighed, but a smile played on her lips.
“And illness,” Lucius added without looking up, his hands steady. The garland would soon adorn the lintel, a symbol of life amid winter’s chill. And a promise of spring.

Diana glanced towards their servant quarters. Secretly, instead of Saturnalia celebrating god Saturn, the harvest and the winter solstice with its endless partying, she much preferred the tradition brought to them by their Dacian slave, Doru. One of music blend with storytelling. He had told her of the Bear Dance, a spectacle of masks and rhythmic chants. Of course, there was no real bear involved, but folk wearing costumes. Yet the bear’s death and resurrection symbolized the rebirth of nature and the cycles of life.
“The bear,” he had whispered one evening as he worked by the hearth, his rough hands deftly mending his embroidered shirt, “was sacred to us. Zalmoxis, our great god, was even named for it—‘zalmos,’ the skin, and ‘oxis,’ the bear—in which he was clothed as soon as he was born. Such a beast, this bear, who could conquer winter, bring the spring.”
He had leaned in, pointing to the motifs on his shirt, the ia, where golden suns and fir branches wove stories.
“The sun, for life and warmth. The fir, eternal, like the gods.” But his calloused fingers lingered over the red thread. Diana need not ask what it stood for. Her heart twisted at the thought of forever being torn apart from her Lucius.
She had often found herself tracing those patterns in her mind, marveling at how a simple garment could tell of seasons, divinity and the promise of renewal. It felt truer, more profound, than the revelry of Saturnalia. Ever since, each time she hung a fir bough over their door, it was not Saturn she thought of but the bear and the ancient rites of the Dacians.

Marcus’ voice reached her heart from their hortus, the small inner garden at the core of their home, where fragrant herbs grew in tidy rows and a bubbling fountain offered its soothing song. A sanctuary enclosed by colonnades that shielded it from the chaos of Rome city beyond. Yes, soon, as Saturn promised, farms and orchards would be green and fruitful again. Diana reached for a loose pine needle on their pristine tiled floor. Who could oppose fertility and its evergreen nature? And so it began.

At the same time, on a different part of Europe…

The Mistletoe and the Druids, these Ancient Celts

The crowd’s murmurs quieted as the Druid, cloaked in white robes woven from the flax plant’s fibers, ascended the sacred oak. The children gasped; his movements were deliberate despite the biting wind. The women winced; the sap will stain the pristine fabric. Below, the grove bristled with life—evergreen boughs woven into wreaths, their dark greens a defiant stand against winter’s skeletal grasp. But mistletoe clung to the oak’s upper branches, its waxy leaves glinting faintly in the dim solstice light. Their price.
A golden sickle, gleaming as if it held in its blade the powers of the sun, emerged from the folds of the Druid’s robe. Then, with a chant that seemed to echo through the grove, in a seamless sweep, he severed the mistletoe with a stroke. The crowd gasped as it tumbled downward, a cascade of sacred green. But it was caught deftly in the white cloth spread by his acolytes.
Not a leaf ought to touch the frozen earth.
“Life endures,” intoned the Druid, holding the mistletoe aloft as a ward against the restless spirits that prowled that night, the solstice night. The crowd’s breath steamed in the chill, but hope warmed their faces, their eyes reflecting the vibrant promise of this one sacred plant.

The Druid descended the oak with the reverence of one bearing a divine relic. He knelt before the gathered mistletoe, his hands trembling not from cold but from the weight of its sacred power.
“This,” he declared, his voice slicing through the silence, “is the soul of the oak, its heart and protector.”
Around him, the crowd shifted, their awe tinged with unease. For they knew the ritual’s unspoken truth: the mistletoe safeguarded the oak, making its bark impenetrable and its wood unyielding. Without it, the mighty tree—once revered as a symbol of strength—would succumb to human will, falling like any common timber.
The Druid lifted the mistletoe higher, his chant invoking both life and death; to sever this sacred connection was to prepare the oak for sacrifice.
“Only now,” he whispered, “may the tree yield its life, its strength given to flame, to the earth, to the gods.” The gathered people, faces lit by faint torchlight, understood that this act transcended mortality: the tree’s fall, marked by the mistletoe’s absence, was the death of a god whose scattered ashes were the promise of rebirth into the waiting soil. It had to be done.

Traveling through time, to another winter tree…

St. Boniface and the First Fir Tree at Christmas Time of 8th Century

The axe glinted in the firelight. The blade rose. It did not tremble—perhaps the man’s heart did—only light danced across its cold surface. As it rose above the wide-eyed child.
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd, their breath curling in the icy air. But before the blow could fall, a voice rang out; clear and commanding.
“No blood shall stain this night!”
Boniface strode into the circle, his sinewy frame draped in a coarse woolen robe. The hood fell back to reveal a face still vigorous, framed by a fringe of dark hair that matched thick eyebrows. And from underneath a fierce gaze measured those around, unwavering with the authority of a man who had faced kings and heathens alike. His outstretched hand, calloused from years of labor and prayer, halted the blade mid-swing, commanding obedience without a word.

“This is the birth-night of the Christ-child, the Son of the All-Father, who ends the need for sacrifice. Thor, whom you fear, is no more—this blood-stained oak is but a shadow of his power.”

Then, gripping the axe, Boniface swung it into the oak as the folk gasped. Strike after strike, the echo cut through the forest. Each stride brought another choke, another moan. The crowd watched, speechless, as their mighty oak tree—Donar’s Oak—groaned. Splintered. Fell, splitting into four columns.
And with the last echoes risen into the night, the forest fell silent. The world fell silent.
All eyes were drawn to something. Behind it. Untouched by ruin. There, a young fir stood, its green spire reaching heavenward.
Boniface turned to the people, his voice softening as that of a father after admonishing his child and sorry to have had to do it.
“This fir, untouched and evergreen, shall be your holy tree. It is a sign of peace, of life unending and it points to heaven. No more will you gather in secret shadows. No more spilled blood. Take this tree to your homes, adorn it with light and celebrate with joy and love.”

The villagers lifted the fir with reverence, carrying it to the chieftain’s hall where its branches were set alight with hopes. Children marveled at its glow and at its crisp scent, earthy and sharp, evoking the stillness of ancient forests. The promise of forever life. Fresh balsam mingled with the warmth of laughter and song as Boniface shared the story of Bethlehem. Underneath the glow of the fir-tree the promise of a new tradition was born—a celebration of light, of life, of the Christ-child.

From a fir tree adorned with hopes at Christmas time, to one adorned with apples and sweets…

Freiburg and the Fraternity of Baker’s Apprentices in the Middle Ages

The air inside the hospital’s courtyard crackled with the chatter of eager voices, never mind the biting morning air. A group of baker’s apprentices gathered around the peculiar sight although it’s been the bewitching scent that had strung them all around it.
A fir tree. Adorned with bright red apples with their tart, honeyed fragrance; delicate wafers that carried a whisper of toasted vanilla; golden gingerbread with spiced flavors that already coated the tongues. And, teasing the air, were strands of glittering tinsel.
Otto, the youngest among them, reached out hesitating for a heartbeat, his flour-dusted fingers grazing a hanging wafer. He felt his palm sweat. He swallowed hard. And smiled.
“Careful!” hissed Lena, swatting his hand away. “They say the sisters blessed it for the sick. It’s no feast for greedy hands.” Otto poked out his tongue. Lena deserved what will come her way. A snowball.
The tree shimmered under the pale winter light streaming through the archways, bouncing off the windows. The apprentices, immune to the low temperatures, their aprons still dusted with the day’s labors, still gazed in wonder.
Otto leaned closer, his breath fogging in the chill. “It’s a miracle,” he murmured, though his stomach growled.
“It’s our work,” Lena corrected, her voice proud. “What better way to brighten a soul than bread, even if it’s hung like stars?”
Still, Otto licked his lips. What better way, indeed.

Flying on silver winter thread across Europe…

A Renaissance Christmas Tree in Riga and Tallinn

I will share with you a story as I glimpsed on it when I visited USSR and the Baltic Countries back in 1988.

“Step closer and look down, beneath your feet. See, a plaque that declares Riga’s claim to fame: The First New Year’s Tree in Riga, 1510. Eight languages, one bold assertion.” The guide gestured grandly, his umbrella, too, glowing under a dust of rain. “Now, you may wonder why this modest square in our UNESCO-protected Town Hall district matters so much. Once upon a time this very spot echoed with laughter, music and, surely, the slightly slurred songs of revelers.”
Today that would have meant the Black Balsa, a herbal liqueur, but in the 16th century would have been plain mead.

The guide pointed to the House of the Brotherhood of the Blackheads, its ornate façade gleaming in the pale morning. “The Brotherhood—young, unmarried merchants, traders, and ship owners—were not exactly known for modest celebrations.”
I immediately thought of Sibiu, in my beloved Transylvania, with its rich medieval guild life and traditions and the peculiar Apprentices House.
“Their Christmas season revelry in 1510 was no exception. Here, they erected a fir tree, festooned it with colorful paper flowers and danced around it in jubilant abandon. And then?” He looked round, daring us to answer, to set our imagination free. “They set it ablaze!” And he clapped his hands startling a pair of pigeons into flight.

“Now, before you say this was mere mischief, let me remind you that the fire had meaning. It was a symbolic act. A way to cleanse the old year and lighten the path to the new one. But of course, there’s a twist to this tale. Some 300 km (about 175 miles) north, in Tallinn, Estonia, they tell a similar story dating it back to 1441. Who’s right? It’s anyone’s guess. The Brotherhood held offices in both cities. It’s entirely possible these merry merchants coordinated their fiery traditions.”
I remembered a similar rivalry, between the craftsmen of Sibiu and Bistrița, over whose tower was taller.
He turned to the towering Christmas tree that now adorned the square, its branches glinting with hundreds of modern lights.
“Today, Riga honors that tradition with a tree far less flammable, but no less enchanting. But can you see it in your mind’s eye, as it once was? The flames licking at the December sky? The warmth of camaraderie and the daring spirit of those who dared to dance in the face of winter’s chill? The first tree; or the first to leave its mark.”

History, like a good fire, spreads its warmth to many places…

Early Modern Sélestat, in the Heart of Alsace, near Strasbourg: Guard This Tree!

The quill hovered for a moment above the ledger, the ink poised like a droplet of shadow before descending, with the sure strokes of a man well-versed in his duty. The Sélestat town accountant, cloaked in the quiet authority of his position (and to ward off the winter chill) penned the words with deliberate precision: an expense of four shillings, paid to the forest wardens. Their charge? He shook his head. The jobs youth acquired these days. But who was he to judge? Four shillings for the care of the fir trees in the town’s communal woodlands.

He paused, tapping the nib against the edge of the inkwell before adding what might have seemed to him an afterthought, but would echo far beyond the stone walls of his office: that the townsfolk were permitted to take a fir tree from the forest, to bring into their homes and bedeck with tokens of festivity, “as has been done since time immemorial.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, a rare softness in a man who dealt mostly in the stark lines of balances and ledgers. He thought of his own hearth, where a modest fir already stood, its green needles filling the room with a sharp, sweet scent. It was a tradition older than any one man, rooted in their soil and seasons, passed from hand to hand like a flickering torch. Perhaps, he mused, in years to come, this simple ledger entry would serve as proof of their customs, a reminder of the fir trees that had stood witness to the joy and reverence of this winter of 1521, and, hopefully, countless others. With a satisfied flourish, he signed his name and closed the book, sealing the moment in history.

“Item 4 schillings den förstern die meygen an sanct thomas tag zu hieten “- an expense of 4 shillings to pay the forest wardens, who looked after the fir trees in the town’s communal forest.

While more and more fir trees were taken home to bring hope and cheer at Christmas time…

1536 Martin Luther’s Christmas candle and 1570, Shaking the Christmas Trees in Bremen

The great guild hall in Bremen echoed with the laughter of children, their faces lit by the soft glow of lanterns hanging from the rafters. In the center of the hall, an imposing fir tree stood tall, its branches heavy with the weight of apples, nuts, pretzels and paper flowers. A vibrant tapestry of colors gleamed in the warm candlelight, the sweet scent of baked goods drifting through the air as the little ones danced around the tree, hands too eager to pluck the treasures from its branches.

It was a tradition passed down through the years, a joyous celebration of both the harvest and the coming of the Christ-child.
Yet this tree, though adorned with the bounty and joy of the season, held no candles yet. It was a nod to the older, pre-Christian “fruit trees” where festivity had always revolved around abundance and the earth’s gifts.
Today, as children giggled and scrambled beneath the swaying branches, the poor were allowed to gather the scattered fruits and treats, their slow laughter mingling with the music that filled the hall. Christmas was a time for everyone, no matter their station, to partake in the sweetness of the season.

Amidst the festivities, the crackle of a roaring fire, and the faint strains of a carolers, an old man. Draped in heavy fur that bore the crisp scent of pine, stood near the hearth, his breath mingling with the aroma of mulled wine and spiced gingerbread. He watched the merry scene unfold with a thoughtful gleam in his eye. His hands rested on the polished hilt of his walking stick. The taste of rich plum pudding lingered on his tongue as his mind wandered to tales of old. Of a preacher named Martin Luther who had once paused beneath a forest canopy. There, he would have gazed upon a fir tree in the forest, its branches reaching skyward, revealing the stars above. A man of faith, nevertheless, who saw in the branches a symbol of the Christ-child descending from the heavens, under the light of a star.

Just then, a child with cheeks flushed from cold or joy, or both, bumped into him with a burst of giggles. A shower of crumbs from the gingerbread in his hand landed on the floor, to the merriment of a mutt.
“Pardon, sir!” the child chirped, his bright eyes suddenly serious and wide with apology.
The old man chuckled, his thoughts of starlit branches too joyful.
“Fear not, little one,” he said, with a voice warm as a winter hearth. “Every jostle has its place, just as every star has its purpose.”

Perhaps one day, he mused, the tree would carry more than just fruit and paper flowers—perhaps candles would adorn its limbs to remind of Christ’s star. But for now, in this humble guild hall, the children danced, the tree swayed and for one night, all was right with the world.

While the gleam and promise held by candles in a Christmas tree shines on…

A Royal Christmas, 19th century, be it British or Romanian

The grand throne room glowed with warmth, cheer and bright handmade decorations as the Queen and her husband, the Prince, stood by a long table now draped in festive cloth. Next to it stood a proud fir tree brought all the way from the Carpathian forests, its branches weighed down with delicate tapers. They were set at intervals along the tree’s limbs, their flames casting a welcoming light across. Like a star covered in stars. And promises for all. But the most precious decoration of this Christmas morning where their children, now standing around the table, wide-eyed with excitement, eagerly waiting, their hands trembling with anticipation reined in only by manners.

Like never before, the room was alive with the scent of pine and framed by the soft hum of reined-in conversation. The royal family had worked together (and it hasn’t been easy to gather everyone at the same time, and surely not without the bribe of treats) to prepare the space and now, with everything in place, the tree was ready. The day could begin. The celebration unfold.
Beneath the tree lay a multitude of gifts wrapped in colorful paper, each bearing the name of a family or staff member, a symbol of royal care and thoughtfulness that went beyond choosing each present.
Because the family’s servants, from the highest-ranking Marshal of the Court to the lowliest chambermaids, had been allowed to gather in the warm glow, in the presence of the royal family. Even the tables, laden with eats for everyone, reflected the bond between the royals and their staff. There was no distinction between them today; all were equals in the spirit of Christmas.

All the children were excited, the non-royal ones pulling at their parents’ hands, eager to begin the joyous ritual. The air shimmered with expectation. The Queen, dressed in a gown of royal blue, her morning diadem gleaming softly, took her husband’s arm as they led the children closer to the tree.
“Now, my dears,” she said, her voice full of warmth as she addressed everyone in the room, “it’s time to open the gifts. Each one, chosen with care and love for you.”
Hands, small an big, bold or hesitant, reached out to pick presents. Laughter bounced through the air mingling with the faint tinkling of the tree’s small bells. A thousand stars sparkled from the tree. For a few moments the noise of the outside world, the worries and wars, ceased to exist while this extended family shared the magic of Christmas.
While everyone tore into their gifts with equal joy the Queen stepped back, content. Her eyes flickered over the room seeing not just her own, but her kingdom, united by a love that was the simplest yet most profound gift of Christmas.

A Mythical Connection: The Eternal Tree

Presents opened. Snacked consumed. Voices dimmed. Only the candles still flickered on the Christmas tree in the grand hall. The young prince stood beside his father, gazing at the tree’s golden star. The Queen, ever thoughtful, knelt beside the children.

“Do you know, my loves,” she said, “that this tree we celebrate around tonight has its roots not just in the earth, but in the myths and beliefs of people long before us?” She gestured toward the fir tree’s sturdy trunk. “In the ancient Norse tales there is a world tree called Yggdrasil. As the Romanian folk has the Tree of Life. It is said to be the pillar of creation itself, its roots reaching into the underworld, its branches touching the heavens. In a way, every evergreen tree reminds us of that eternal connection between earth, sky, and spirit.”

One of the children, wide-eyed, pointed at the ornaments glinting like stars on the branches. “And the fruits, Mother? Did the gods hang those ?”

“Ah, the golden apples of the Hesperides,” the Queen said, her voice soft and lyrical. “The jewels of the divine garden guarded fiercely for they gave the gift of immortality. Mortals were forbidden to taste them, much like the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge in Eden.”

The older child, always quick with a question, tilted her head. “Why do we remember these forbidden trees, Mother, when they brought such sorrow?”

The Queen smiled but her eyes reflected wisdom. “Because within sorrow lies redemption. In Christian tradition, the Tree of Life represents communion with God. Some say its fruits give eternal life, just as the cross—fashioned from a tree—brought salvation to the world. Perhaps every tree we honor at Christmas carries a memory of these ancient tales. From the evergreen of Yggdrasil to the garden of Eden, to this fir tree before us, they remind us of creation, of connection and hope.”

The youngest child tugged at her mother’s sleeve again. “Does our tree give us gifts, like those trees?”

The Queen laughed and kissed her daughter’s brow. “Yes, my dear, it gives us gifts—of love, of joy and of memories to hold forever.”

Cherished Memories of a Childhood Christmas during Communist Romania

I remember how at home we whispered about Santa Clause, Moș Crăciun, the old man with a white beard and magical powers who would sneak in to leave gifts under the tree. But at school, the story was different. There we would say Father Frost, Moș Gerilă, a colder, official version stripped of the magic I felt at home. Until one day my mother, resigned and advised me to imagine a different tale: “There are two Moși. One comes at Christmas, and the other at New Year’s.”

But the school celebrations only spoke of the one Moș, Moș Gerilă. It was a clear attempt to hide something. Behind the forced smiles of the communist propaganda Moș Crăciun was erased and the tree—my beloved Christmas fir tree—was reduced to being called simply a “winter tree.” I remember how the propaganda tried to bury tradition, to wipe the memory of the Savior’s birth from our hearts.

Yet my parents and I, like so many other Romanians, would bake the blessed cozonac bread, whisper of the Birth of Jesus and sing true Christmas carols by the Christmas tree.

And so for me the Christmas tree remained the evergreen fir tree, its history undying. Never perfect from all the sides and we would turn it this way an that to find its best side. But it was more than just a plant—it was a promise. Of another traditional Christmas together, and of many more to come… My father would queue for hours to buy a natural one and its sharp, pure scent would fill the house as if the entire winter wanted to embrace us. My mother would smile, repeating a saying I knew well: “At least one branch, to smell of pine…”

Oranges and bananas, the Christmas delicacies brought by Santa were as rare as a clear day in the middle of winter. To get them, a real chain of favors had to be set in motion. You had to know someone who knew someone else who had a relative or connection at a store. Otherwise my dad would queue for hours… If you managed to procure a kilogram of oranges or a few bananas, it felt like winning the lottery.

Our natural tree was adorned with ornaments—true works of art, carefully stored in boxes that smelled of dusty cardboard. Each ornament had its own story, its own memory. Alongside these, we made at school we made garlands from crepe paper, gluing colorful strips together with great care. No matter what you placed on the tree, I remember that it looked magnificent.

A few days before Christmas Eve my father and paternal grandmother would close the kitchen door and knead the dough for the cozonac with his strong arms. “The cozonac needs peace and heat,” he’d say with a serious air, like an alchemist preparing a magical potion. The sweet smell of the cozonac rising in the oven filled our noses, but we weren’t allowed to taste it until Christmas morning. The sweet torture of waiting was, somehow, part of the charm.

The snow was abundant, blanketing the streets and whispering stories only children could understand. I remember trudging through the snow puling my old sleigh, loving the crunch under my boots, thinking about the gifts hidden under the tree and the magic that filled our home, no matter what the propaganda said.

Christmas was there, alive, in the scent of pine, in the warm cozonac, in our shared laughter gathered round the fir tree, singing, and in my parents’ stories. No one, not even Moș Gerilă, could take that away from us.

From the ancient Tree of Life to the apples of Eden and the evergreen symbols of redemption in Christian tradition the tree has always stood at the heart of human storytelling, embodying life, connection and renewal. Of course, its role transformed over centuries—from a mystical symbol in the forest to a festive centerpiece in town squares and home becoming the Christmas fir tree we cherish today. While baubles, garlands, candles or gifts whisper tales of ages past, reminding us that traditions, like the roots of a tree, run deep and bind us to one another through time.

May this Christmas, wherever you gather, be as timeless as the stories shared and as enduring as the evergreen itself. Wishing you joy, warmth and peace this holiday season!