The Comfort of Christmas

As I’ve gotten older, Christmas and how I view it has changed and grown. Some years I’m fully in the spirit, and other years I’m basically squinting at the season from the corner of the room. But at the core of it all, there are small comforts that steady me, little traditions and moments that wrap themselves around my edges in the gentlest way. This year is no different.
One of my favorite things to do during the colder months is curl up on my couch in front of a crackling fire with a hot cup of tea and a good book. It’s where my introverted bibliophile soul feels most at home. The soft glow of the Christmas tree fills the room and makes the whole moment feel like the first real exhale of the day. Sometimes there’s music playing quietly in the background, the same carols I grew up with. “The Christmas Guest” by Reba still gives me chills after all these years, and playful classics like Frosty the Snowman and Percy the Puny Poinsettia pull me back into childhood without asking permission. Even the memory of that borderline-aggressive pine spray my mom spritzed onto our artificial tree still drifts through my mind. It was the kind of pine scent that announced itself the moment you walked into the room, and somehow that unmistakable smell still carries a softness that belongs to a simpler time.
There are plenty of tiny comforts I pretend I’m above, even though they absolutely make the season feel complete in ways my soul still craves. Growing up, my mom loved Christmas with her whole being. The second Thanksgiving dinner ended, the tree went up, the lights went out, and every corner of the house transformed. When we weren’t listening to music, Hallmark movies were playing in the background. Love them or hate them, there’s something about those cheesy, predictable, cliché movies that I need after a long day. I don’t care how many times I’ve seen “The Spirit of Christmas,” I still get that little breathy “ahhh…” moment when Daniel says, “Twelve days isn’t nearly long enough.” These movies are like potato chips. They’re not a full meal, but I keep reaching for them anyway.
Speaking of things I keep reaching for, I’ve learned that somewhere along the way I stopped resenting fudge season. (Mom, don’t worry, you’re not misreading this. Miracles still happen.) If you know my family, you know November and December are fudge months for us. We make twenty-seven different flavors, each with its own carefully crafted recipe. It takes time, effort, and a whole lot of counter space to prep, cook, set, cut, and wrap them. For years, the moment November hit, I’d feel that familiar sink in my stomach because I knew what was coming. But in recent years, that feeling has softened. There’s something oddly comforting about the rhythm of it now. Moving around the kitchen with my mom, Christmas music or a movie playing in the background, each flavor slowly coming together. It creates a warm, steady atmosphere that softens the pace of the season and fills the kitchen with a feeling I didn’t appreciate until adulthood.
At the end of the day, nostalgia ties all of this together. Christmas has always been the season where memory feels louder. When I look at our tree, filled with homemade ornaments from my sisters and me, little souvenirs from vacations, and tiny tributes to pets long gone, I feel that familiar warmth settle in. Childhood peace finds its way back to me every time I hear those old carols or watch Christmas cartoons like “Donald’s Snow Fight” or “Mickey’s Christmas Carol.” It’s an immediate comfort, like being pulled into a memory that still knows my name.
One of my most cherished traditions sits outside of music and ornaments altogether. Every Christmas Eve, my grandpa watched Home Alone like it was the first time he’d ever seen it. It didn’t matter how many years passed or how many times we put that movie on… he lit up the exact same way. He laughed, cringed, and cheered at all the same parts, completely delighted every single time Kevin outsmarted those burglars. I loved the movie, but I loved watching him even more. And if I’m honest, I’d trade just about anything to sit beside him and watch him watch it one more time. Even now, that memory is one of the comforts I keep returning to. A tradition that lives on, even if he isn’t here to carry it with me.
Growing up, Christmas was my favorite holiday, not because of gifts or snow, but because it brought everyone together. The day after Thanksgiving, we decorated the house inside and out. We baked fudge, cookies, and savory treats for my mom’s annual Christmas party. We caroled around town, and we played or sang in our church’s Christmas program. But at the heart of all of it, beyond the lights and carols and decorations, was our core belief in Jesus. Christmas wasn’t just a holiday for my blood family. It was a celebration shared with my Christian family, where we all set aside our differences and worries to remember that God came down in the form of Jesus to live and ultimately die so that each of us could have the opportunity to spend eternity with Him.
And that is the most comforting embrace I get during this time of year.