Every Christmas Journey Comes With a Story , What’s Yours This Year?

The day after Boxing Day was always our day for travelling. Boxing Day itself was devoted to visiting friends and relatives in the Lower Mainland. But the day after, that was for Vancouver Island. And that meant only one thing: braving the BC Ferry system during the holidays.

If you’ve never travelled by ferry during Christmas week, imagine trying to join a parade, a marathon, and a traffic jam all at once, then add a bit of rain, a few cranky toddlers, and at least one adult muttering, “I thought you packed the snacks.” That’s holiday ferry travel.

Back in the days before the reservation system, catching a ferry was a full-contact sport. There we’d be, bundled up in winter jackets, thermos of coffee in the cup holder, children stuffed into the backseat with new toys that could beep, honk, sing, rattle, or, in the worst moments, do all four at once. From our house, it was an hour-and-a-half drive to the terminal, assuming traffic cooperated. On holiday weekends it rarely did.

Parking at the terminal was its own adventure. Holidays meant two- to three-ferry waits, sometimes more. We’d crawl into the holding lanes, one car among hundreds, relying on blind optimism and whatever snacks survived the drive. Our children were small then, and travelling always meant at least one person needed to use the bathroom right now, someone else was hungry but only for the food we didn’t bring, and toys that worked perfectly at home mysteriously malfunctioned the moment we parked.

In the “old days,” as my children like to call them, the boats ran every hour. It felt efficient, reliable, almost blissfully predictable. But as the ferry fleet modernized and costs rose, sailings shifted to every two hours. And somehow that small change made the waits feel twice as long. Those of us travelling with children developed a keen awareness of time. Parents in the next car would exchange sympathetic nods, like soldiers recognizing fellow veterans. Someone was always pacing with a crying toddler. The air smelled faintly of exhaust and salty sea breeze, mixed with the aroma of French fries drifting from the terminal café like a siren song.

Then came the reservation system.

You’d think it would have made everything easier, and eventually it did, but at first, it simply replaced one type of chaos with another. To reserve a sailing, you had to go online five to six weeks before your trip and commit to a specific day and time. Commit! As if life with small children ran according to schedule. And you had to pay a non-refundable fee for the privilege of this certainty, which wasn’t entirely certain, because if you arrived too early or too late, your reservation wouldn’t be honoured. You had to hit the sweet spot: no more than one hour before departure and no less than 30 minutes beforehand.

Too early? Too late? Either way, good luck, Merry Christmas, and no refund.

At the terminal, you were sorted into two lines: the chosen ones (those with reservations) and the hopeful wanderers (those without). The reserved lane moved smoothly to the envy of everyone else. And yet, no matter how well you planned, the day still held its share of chaos. Babies cried, toddlers complained, adults tried not to. Someone always forgot something. The ferry workers, bundled in heavy jackets, guided cars with that calm, practiced wave that said they’d seen it all before, because they had.

But then, finally, you’d drive aboard. The engines hummed beneath your feet, the salty wind swept across the deck, and suddenly the whole journey felt worth it. The children perked up. Adults unclenched their shoulders. The cafeteria smell, fries, gravy, burgers, was oddly comforting. On the open deck, gulls followed the ship, swooping and crying against a grey winter sky. You could feel the Island drawing closer, the familiar mix of cedar, sea air, and home.

We made these holiday crossings for years. Through the changes in the ferry system, through babies becoming teens, through long waits and memorable mishaps. Then, as life does, everything shifted. Parents passed. Children grew. The need for those trips slowly faded. I miss the old days sometimes, not the lineups, not the scrambling, but the sense of purpose, the ritual of it, the way families string their traditions between one generation and the next like lights on a tree.

Now our holiday travels are quieter. Easier. But whenever we step onto a ferry, no matter the season, I feel echoes of those earlier years, the noise, the laughter, the spilled cocoa, the sense that we were heading somewhere important because family was waiting on the other side.

Every Christmas journey comes with a story.

Some are funny.
Some are stressful.
Some become part of our family lore, the kind retold every year with growing exaggeration and fondness.

So, tell me, what’s your Christmas travel story this year?

Gratitude Remains, Rest, Reflect, and Enjoy the Leftovers

Boxing Day has always held its own gentle magic. Not the glittering, sparkling, heart-thumping excitement of Christmas Day, but a quieter sort of magic, the kind that settles over you like a warm blanket after all the ribbons have been gathered, the dishes washed, and the last of the wrapping paper has been stuffed (or shoved) into the recycling bin. It is the day when gratitude remains, long after the frenzy fades. The wrapping is gone, the noise has softened, and the leftovers, oh yes, the glorious leftovers, become the heroes of the hour.

When I was growing up, Boxing Day was never about rushing or planning. It was simply a day to visit friends in town. My parents would pack us into the car, and off we’d go, bundled up in scarves and coats that always smelled faintly of wool, peppermint, and whatever dessert had been stored in the trunk. We’d arrive at my parents’ friends’ homes, the air warm with coffee, pipe smoke, and the laughter of adults who had survived another Christmas with their sanity mostly intact.

The grown-ups would settle into the living room, talking about “important things,” though to my young ears it all sounded like a pleasant hum. Meanwhile, we children would scatter to the basement or backyard, where we’d compare presents, trade stories, and try out whatever noisy toy someone had insisted on bringing along. It was a relaxed day, as I remember it, a sort of mini-holiday tucked inside the holidays. No schedule, no expectations, just companionship and the gentle feeling that Christmas wasn’t quite over yet.

When my wife and I married, we discovered, to our delight, that Boxing Day visiting was one tradition our families shared. Her family celebrated it with gusto, especially since most of her relatives lived on the mainland. She came from a clan thick with aunts, uncles, Great Aunts, Great Uncles, and grandparents who seemed to multiply every time a new family photo was taken.

Those early Boxing Days of our married life were fun, but I won’t pretend they were restful. We were young, enthusiastic, and determined to keep all the traditions alive at once. We’d start out around 11:00 AM to make the first visit in Vancouver by noon. Armed with a map of relatives (this was before GPS), we had the route down to a fine science: Aunt and Uncle #1, then the grandparents, then the cousins, then the Great Aunt who always had shortbread cooling on the table, and finally the uncle whose punch bowl should have come with a warning label.

Most years, the plan unfolded without a hitch, unless you count the time I ate too many candied yams before lunch number three and had to discreetly loosen my belt in the car. Everywhere we went, people tried to feed us. And not modest, polite offerings, either, no, these were full spreads. Turkey sandwiches, trifle, cold ham, sausage rolls, fudge, and enough cheese to repave the driveway. You couldn’t say no. It was a point of pride for the hosts, and besides, the food was too good to resist.

By the time New Year’s Day rolled around, I had usually gained enough weight to consider rolling myself into the next room instead of walking. And just when the waistband began to feel forgiving again, along came my wife’s family tradition: the massive New Year’s Day dinner. This was a glorious event, fun, loud, and overflowing with food, but let’s just say it was easier to fully appreciate it once the effects of New Year’s Eve had worn off.

Then, as time will always do, the traditions shifted. Our parents passed. My wife’s father passed. The older generation, those who once held the puzzle pieces of holiday schedules together, slowly slipped away. We had children of our own. Lives changed, priorities shifted, and the cosmic dance of Boxing Day visiting began to fade. I miss those days, the noise, the bustle, the endless plates of food, but I don’t miss them enough to try to recreate them. Some traditions are meant to live in memory, wrapped carefully like ornaments we take out now and then just to hold and smile at.

These days, Boxing Day has become something gentler. A day for comfortable clothes, mismatched socks, and second helpings of turkey stuffing. A day to flip on the TV, enjoy a movie, or simply sit in a chair long enough to notice how good it feels to do absolutely nothing. A day to let gratitude settle in, like snowflakes on a quiet street.

There is something beautifully simple about it now: the quiet house, the soft glow of lights still on the tree, the faint smell of yesterday’s feast lingering in the kitchen. Maybe a slow walk, maybe a nap, maybe a leisurely phone call with someone you didn’t get to see on Christmas Day. The world feels softer on Boxing Day. Less hurried. More forgiving.

However you celebrate these days, whether surrounded by family, visiting old friends, or enjoying a peaceful day of leftovers and reflection, I hope they are everything you want and need them to be. Because no matter how traditions evolve, gratitude remains. And sometimes the quiet moments after the celebration are the ones that remind us just how much we have to be grateful for.

Merry Christmas

 From my family to  you and yours, may your day be merry, your heart full, and your home filled with love and laughter

Christmas Eve Never Loses Its Charm

Tomorrow is Christmas. You can feel it in the air, something soft, something bright, something that feels a little like childhood and a little like hope. For some, tonight will be spent in worship, the familiar hymns rising like warm breath into the winter air. Others will gather with family or friends, telling the same stories they’ve told for years, each one polished by time into something comforting. And for many, perhaps most, the evening will unfold gently, a mix of resting, wrapping, nibbling, remembering, and enjoying the small joys that drift in on Christmas Eve like snowflakes.

It’s funny how this night manages to hold so many emotions at once. Excitement, anticipation, tenderness, and for some, a quiet ache. This year, as in every year, there are those among us who carry a loss fresh on their hearts. Christmas Eve becomes a time of reflection, of holding memories like ornaments in the hand, turning them gently, remembering the laughter, the good times, the shared meals, and the warmth of someone who is no longer in the room but forever in the story. Grief and gratitude often sit side by side on Christmas Eve, and somehow, this night makes room for both.

Now, I confessed in a previous post: I am a last-minute shopper. A repeat offender. The kind of person who has, more than once, found himself in a crowded store on December 24th, staring at a shelf of half-picked-over items and thinking, “Well… it’s the thought that counts.” And because I am a last-minute shopper, by fate or personality, I am also a last-minute wrapper, not the singing or rhyming kind, though if someone needs a beatbox rendition of “Jingle Bells,” I can give it my best.

My tradition, if one can call this annual scramble a tradition, is to wait until everyone in the house has gone to bed. Only then do I sneak out the presents as quietly as a cat burglar with arthritis. I spread out the paper, the bows, the tape, the scissors, and my good intentions. And then the fun begins.

There is always a moment when I’m trying to slice a neat line on the ribbon and somehow end up trimming my own finger instead. Every year the tape dispenser decides to play hide-and-seek, disappearing under wrapping paper, behind cushions, or perhaps into another dimension entirely. And every single time, without fail, I drop the tape roll at least a dozen times. The thud-thud-thud of it bouncing across the floor is, at this point, the unofficial soundtrack of Christmas in our house. My wife claims she can tell exactly what time it is based on how often she hears me muttering at a piece of Scotch tape.

For many years, my son and his partner came over for a drink of eggnog or wine. They still pop by when they can, bringing a burst of laughter and the kind of stories that only adult children can tell, half confession, half comedy, all love. We catch up, poke fun at each other, and enjoy the brief but special warmth that comes from having your grown children close on Christmas Eve. It’s one of those small blessings that sparkle quietly, the kind you don’t take for granted as the years move along.

When my extended family’s children were small, they used to come by earlier in the evening, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes bright, breathless with the excitement of the day. We’d ask them what they hoped Santa would bring, and they answered with the total confidence only children possess: a doll, a truck, a dinosaur, a puppy, a robot, sometimes all in the same breath. Now they’re older, and Christmas Eve pulls them in a different direction. They prefer to stay at home, trying to stay awake long enough to catch Santa in the act. And really, there’s something wonderful about that too. Childhood magic deserves its space to grow.

Eventually the night settles. The door closes behind the last visitor. The lights are dim. My wife and I slip into our softest pajamas, the ones that have been around long enough to be considered family heirlooms, and finally make cocoa. Real cocoa, the kind made on the stove, where the milk warms slowly and the smell fills the kitchen with something that feels like a hug.

We curl up on the couch, a blanket across our knees, and watch our favourite Christmas movie. We’ve seen it so many times that we can quote whole scenes, yet somehow it still makes us smile as if it were new. Maybe that’s the true delight of Christmas Eve: its ability to make old things feel fresh again.

There’s a stillness that descends on this night, a kind of soft magic that hasn’t faded with time. The world outside feels hushed, as though the snow itself is holding its breath. The Christmas tree glows quietly in the corner, casting gentle reflections on the windows. Somewhere in the distance, someone is laughing, someone is lighting a candle, someone is remembering, someone is wrapping a gift for the fifth time because the tape keeps disappearing.

Christmas Eve never loses its charm. It never loses its magic. No matter how old we become, no matter how many Christmases we have tucked behind us, this night carries a glow that reaches all the way back to our first childhood memories and stretches forward to the ones we have yet to make.

And as we sit there, warm cocoa in hand, movie flickering, knowing tomorrow will bring its own joys, we feel it once again: that unmistakable, precious whisper of Christmas Eve.

It never grows old.

It only grows deeper.