What Christmas Means to Me

It’s that time of year again. I’m sitting in my cozy house, listening to Christmas music and watching Hallmark movies. A warm cup of tea is never far from me, with delicious cookies at my beck and call that I’ll probably regret next month.
Christmas has always held a special place in my heart. As a child, I loved the presents and the lights. My family went all out. We would take the day after Thanksgiving to decorate our house and often my grandparents’ house as well, covering everything in lights and festive displays. Christmas carols by Elvis, Patsy and Elmo, Reba, and Burl Ives played as we hung bright, twinkling things around our home.
As a teenager and young adult, I craved that time with my family, especially my grandparents. Every year on Christmas Eve, after we’d finished our huge Christmas feast, we would sit down with our slices of pie and watch Home Alone or rather, we would watch my grandpa watch Home Alone. Every year without fail, he made the same comments at the same moments. Each trap Kevin set earned a heartfelt, “Oh man, that REALLY had to hurt,” each one worse than the last. It was like watching my grandpa transform into a young boy all over again, every single year.
At least once during our festivities, my grandma would sit down at my piano. With or without a music book in front of her, she would play beautiful hymns and carols. Always quietly, as if she simply wanted the music to fill the spaces between conversation. If she ever made a mistake or forgot a note, you couldn’t tell. It wasn’t meant to be a performance. It was a constant presence, gentle and grounding, never overwhelming.
​My mom was always at the heart of it all. The kitchen came alive under her hands as she prepared beautiful spreads of food, each dish arranged with care, never rushed, always thoughtful. It wasn’t just about feeding people. It was an act of love, of service, of making sure everyone felt welcomed and cared for. Her quiet devotion set the tone for the entire day, a living reminder that Christmas is meant to be an offering of ourselves to others, not just for one day, but for the whole season.
My dad, meanwhile, was rarely still. He bustled in and out, fixing, adjusting, hanging lights, making sure the outside of our home felt just as warm and inviting as the inside. He greeted neighbors with a wave, a joke, a smile that came easily and honestly. His cheerfulness and steady kindness reflected something deeper. That how we show up to the world matters. That joy, generosity, and welcome shouldn’t be seasonal decorations, but year-round practices.
As an adult, I miss the calming reassurance of so many of those moments. The smiles and laughter. My grandparents’ laughter and hugs. They were so ingrained in this holiday that without them, it feels like a different event altogether. And then I remember.
They both knew what this holiday was really about. At the core of the movies, the music, and the presents, I was always reminded that this holiday is a Holy-day. We celebrate it because God came to earth in the form of a baby, the most vulnerable form, to die for each and every one of us. That the God of the universe, the Creator of all, loved us so infinitely that He chose to come down, suffer alongside us, be beaten, ridiculed, and killed so that we would have the chance to spend eternity with Him.
He didn’t have to do that. We chose to separate ourselves from Him. We chose to sin. We choose, again and again, to push Him aside. And still, He chose to endure the pain and suffering before Him so that we, too, would have the chance to choose Him for eternity.
It’s because my grandparents knew and trusted in that truth that I know I’ll get to spend Christmas with them again. And next time, it won’t be for a season.
Next time, it will be for eternity.