I
Christmas was two weeks away, and Margaret wondered how she was going to make it through.
She had four children, ages ten, seven, two, and six months. But she hadn’t expected that the holiday would find her left with three—December came as her six-month-old daughter passed away. On top of that, her husband had just been admitted into a psychiatric ward, leaving her and the children to make sense of the pieces left of their life.
She didn’t know if she had it in her to celebrate the holiday. But she did know that she didn’t have it in her to tell her kids there wasn’t going to be a Christmas that year. In such a time of grief, they needed it more than ever.
So she said to herself, “Just do it!” And despite having to pretend to be happy at first, she went about decorating and buying presents.
As she watched her three children open their gifts, their joy was contagious, and she started feeling her spirit rise. She called it one of their best Christmases.
Years later, she reflected on that Christmas: “The more I helped others, the better I felt about myself. I knew my children needed a mother who was whole, not in pieces. … I found that in helping others, I was helping myself be whole.”
II
When you’re a kid, Christmas happens to you. Everyone around you makes the magic for you. One day your parents pull out the decorations from the basement, and you watch the house transform. Then on Christmas morning, you wake up and there’re presents under the tree. Without much of your own doing, things happen around you to create the Christmas spirit.
But when adulthood rolls around, you have to make Christmas happen. Now it’s on you to step into the kitchen—both figuratively and literally—and create the magic.
And maybe there’s a different kind of magic in the things we make for ourselves, different from the kind that is given to us on a platter. There’s a moment of excitement when someone unveils their culinary masterpiece at a potluck; it’s a different kind of special when you’re enjoying something you made yourself with great effort.
Likewise, maybe there are different kinds of magic to Christmas.
III
Ooh, shiny!
Christmas decorations are like the makeup your girlfriend puts on for your anniversary. They’re novel. They’re new. They’re exciting. They’re enhancing. And oh they’re sexy.
Everything gets a facelift in Christmastime, and that gives us a sense of novelty. We start to see things anew again too. That house, that mailbox, that living room that you pass by every day without a thought, you now take a second look at with appreciation.
And isn’t that how children see the world all the time? Isn’t the world of a child so magical because they’re seeing with fresh eyes? And isn’t it the case that we adults lose that magic because we’re seeing with old ones? Weary and stressed ones? Cynical and depressed ones? Hurt and betrayed ones? Oh to recapture the wonder and see through the eyes of a child again!
But there’s something else to the tradition of decorating: it also involves cleaning up (sometimes a little, sometimes a lot!). Putting things in order. And when things are in order, they’re a little closer to perfection.
And maybe that’s one of the things we’re chasing in all the glittering decorations, colored wrappings, and dancing lights: a world of perfection. When everything is perfect, the worries of regular life are forgotten, the grime of hard work is swept away, and the quicksand of a painful past is relieved.
One might call it a sort of escape, from the dullness and stresses of life. A time when all that melts away like snow in spring. But maybe it’s more than that. It’s a glimpse of bigger, better, and freer things like love, giving, and the meaning of life. The spirit of Christmas encourages us to ponder on higher things.
IV
One word comes up all the time when people talk about getting into the Christmas spirit.
Nostalgia.
It’s a strange feeling. It’s bittersweet.
It’s a longing. A longing for a past when life was simpler and purer. A longing for something we feel we’ve lost.
We lost our childhood with the stresses of adulthood. We lost our innocence with the complexities of relationships. We lost what really matters in the midst of the hustle and bustle.
We yearn for home. Nostalgia is a glimpse of that yearning.
V
I don’t like Hallmark Christmas movies. They’re silly. Unrealistic. Too perfect. They probably create fanciful expectations for romance. I’m a pragmatist. I’d rather watch the Avengers collect shiny stones and battle a purple space alien.
But—as many Hallmark viewers have told me—that’s the whole point. They’re supposed to be unrealistic because they’re a break from reality.
They’re a glimpse of a perfect world. We like imagining what it’d be like if love is easily found, people are selfless, and life can be stress-free in a cute little rural town.
There’s a utility in the idealism (here goes my pragmatism again). It reminds us that there’s something more. It gives us something to strive for. And not least, it gives our inner child space to play, to dream, to dare.
VI
It was a cold December night in 2019, and Main Street in a tiny town in Kentucky was bustling with the Christmas spirit. People strolled up, down, and across the street, looking into shops and chattering away with friends. Children ran around in beanies too big for their heads. College students sauntered in packs, laughing and flirting. Grandparents hobbled along, greeting neighbors with a warmth no hearth can match.
On the right was a fire pit where shivering students huddled in a circle, and a friendly professor strummed on a guitar, his face lit by the dancing firelight. On the left side of the street, families and young lovers took pictures by a fifteen-foot Christmas tree, fully decked in white lights, glittering streamers, and a glowing star on its peak that watched the goings-on like the Eye of Sauron. On both sides of the street, shops were buzzing with people in puffy coats; some were there to buy, others just wanted to get out of the cold. It was magical.
I ducked into a church that stood nearby with wide-open doors. I was immediately greeted by warm air and almost immediately had to peel off a layer or two. The next thing that greeted me was the musical sounds of choir and orchestra performing songs of the season for a packed auditorium.
I loved the carols. I loved the magic, the nostalgia. But Christmas had become somewhat bittersweet to me over the years. For the concert’s final piece, the music director invited the audience to stand and sing: “I’ll Be Home For Christmas.” It’s a lovely piece, and it really hits that nostalgia button.
But I wasn’t home. I hadn’t been home nor seen my family in years.
And as I sang along with them—watching them hold their family members close or clasp hands with their spouses—I thought about how lucky they were to be home. To belong.
VII
Let's hear from Hannah:
"For me, [Christmas] means a lot. It gives me a reason for creativity, decorating and making gifts. It gives me a reason to bake. It's the only time I care to spend so much time with my family. It's the one day a year I can focus on other people. And I have so many traditions, even if they are ones by myself.
"I love the beauty in it with all the shiny lights and stuff on the tree. I love all the movies because, as cheesy as they are, they are hopeful and silly. I love the music because it's fun, it's dancy, it reminds me of all the memories I have made every Christmas.
"And I make more every year, even when things in life aren't great at that time. I make the best of things and bring (arguably too much) Christmas spirit to those around me."
VIII
Now let's wrap it up with John:
“[The joy of Christmas] is getting things for little kids, like my nieces and nephews. It’s fun to think about what brought me joy at that age, and hunting for the things that kids adore and make parents grumpy!
“The other thing that gets me in the spirit is to pick a spot in my house and decorate. The dogs and cats would destroy a proper Christmas tree in thirty seconds flat, so I got a wee Charlie Brown tree, put up on a table out of reach. Recently, I added a little Lego Christmas-themed train around the base of the tree (always wanted a train around the tree as a kid). I added little lights to it and it’s such a happy little thing!
“Lastly, the person who personified the joys of Christmas in my childhood was my dear grandmother. Pulling out a few things of hers makes me feel like she is still with me.
“When I started kindergarten, some kids felt the need to tell me there was no Santa Claus. I went to my grandmother, the clear authority on the subject, in distress and asking if those kids were telling the truth. She said, in a very serious tone, ‘I believe in the spirit of Santa Claus.’ I had no clue what that meant, but it sounded important and reassuring somehow. Half a century later, I couldn’t agree more.”
Stay purposeful.
– Nathanael
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