Growing up in the rolling countryside of Clackamas County, Oregon, holly trees were such a common sight that I hardly gave them a second thought. Holly farms stretched alongside rows of Christmas trees, often tended by the same farmers who supplied both. Each year, as the air grew crisp and the ground frosted over, my family would head out to gather cedar boughs and sprigs of holly. I can still recall helping my mother weave those glossy leaves and bright red berries into garlands, hanging them around our doors and windows until the house felt alive with Christmas cheer.

Years later, long before I donned the red suit and built my year-round Santa studio, decorating with holly became my personal signal that Christmas had begun. I may not have matched my mother’s flair for festivity, but I always hung a generous bundle above the front door. It was the first decoration to go up and the last to come down—usually in mid-January. When it finally dried and dulled, I would save the boughs to kindle the Imbolc fire, the ancient celebration we now know as Groundhog Day.

Holly’s presence in our homes at Christmas is no coincidence. Its roots run deep—centuries deep—into the Yule festivals of Northern Europe. With its evergreen leaves and vibrant red berries, the holly tree was seen as a beacon of life in the cold darkness of winter. Ancient peoples believed it held protective powers, capable of keeping misfortune and evil spirits at bay. They would bring cuttings into their homes, placing them near doorways and hearths to invite good fortune.

One of the earliest figures resembling our modern Santa Claus can even be traced to the Holly King, a timeless woodland spirit, crowned with holly and cloaked in green or red robes. In old lore, the Holly King ruled the dark half of the year, locked in an eternal dance of power with his counterpart, the Oak King, who reigned over the light half. When we look at Charles Dickens’ Ghost of Christmas Present, with his green robe, holly crown, and overflowing horn of plenty, we are truly seeing the echo of the Holly King: a merry, generous figure, and yes, a “right jolly old elf.”

Because of its sacred nature, it was once considered bad luck to fell a holly tree completely. Still, taking cuttings was not only allowed but encouraged. Its strong, fine-grained wood was valued for crafting furniture, tools, and even musical instruments. The holly, it seems, has always found a way to serve; beautiful, useful, and enduring.

Our songs still celebrate it. The Holly and the Ivy, Deck the Halls, and A Holly Jolly Christmas continue to echo through living rooms and radio speakers alike, their melodies wrapping us in nostalgia. Each lyric is a reminder that this humble evergreen, with its shining leaves and scarlet berries, is woven into the fabric of our seasonal joy.

When Christianity spread across Northern Europe, the meaning of the holly evolved but was never lost. The glossy, evergreen leaves came to symbolize eternal life, and the red berries, the blood of Christ. Yet beneath the new symbolism, the same reverence endured, a recognition that beauty and life can persist even in the darkest winter.

Perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all. The holly tree reminds us that even when the world grows cold and dark, there is strength and color to be found if we only know where to look. It is a lesson as fitting for Christmas as it is for life itself: that hope, like the holly, remains evergreen.

-Father Christmas of the Three Mountains