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.