The house is still and quiet—other than the soft piano notes of the Charlie Brown Christmas album playing in the background. The glow from the tree is the only light in the room, casting gentle shadows across the floor while I move quietly, putting together the stockings.
It’s early—too early for the rest of the house to be awake—and I find myself holding my breath in the silence, not out of tension, but out of reverence. There’s something sacred in this in-between. The world hasn’t yet cracked open into chaos or laughter or sugar-fueled energy. For now, it’s just this: quiet music, soft light, and the anticipation of joy.
I’m waiting for my daughter to wake up and run down the hallway. Waiting to see her face when she discovers what’s been left for her—presents, yes, but more than that: the care, the thought, the delight we’ve tucked into each thing. And standing here in the stillness, I realize that this right here is the greatest gift I could ever receive.
Not the moment of unwrapping, but the moment before—the breathless pause when love has already been given, and all that’s left is to witness it land.
That’s what’s changed for me over the years. Christmas used to be something I looked forward to receiving. Now it’s something I live for giving. Not just things, but presence. Not just tradition, but tenderness.
And in this moment, I feel something else, too—luck. Deep, quiet, overwhelming gratitude. That I get to be here. That I get to watch her eyes light up. That I get to share this life, this morning, this stillness.
But I also know this kind of joy isn’t evenly distributed.
The holidays, for many, aren’t soft. They’re jagged with grief, silence that doesn’t feel sacred, or houses that are quiet for harder reasons. And maybe that’s why I feel this moment so sharply—because I know how easily it could have been different. Because I know there are people right now for whom this day is something to survive, not celebrate.
So here’s my wish this morning, as I sit in the glow of the tree with stockings in my lap:
I hope love finds you.
Even just a spark.
A glance.
A remembered laugh.
A call from someone who knows how to say your name the right way.
I hope there’s something warm in your day—not because everything’s perfect, but because something true broke through.
I hope you get to witness joy on someone’s face and know you played a part in it. I hope you feel, even for a moment, the way I feel right now—like the universe cracked open just enough to let the light in.
Soon, the house will fill with footsteps and wrapping paper and shrieks of joy. The Charlie Brown piano will be drowned out by cartoons and conversation and sugar highs. But for now, I’m here. Quiet. Present. Overflowing.
And I just wanted to say:
Merry Christmas.
May love find you—wherever you are, however it can.