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.

Laughter by the Fire

“What do snowmen eat for breakfast? Frosted Flakes.

Some of the best Christmas joke are below!

Jokes About Christmas Traditions

What do you call a bunch of chess players bragging about their games in a hotel lobby? Chess nuts boasting in an open foye

What happened to the man who stole an Advent Calendar? He got 25 days.

Why did the Christmas shopper bring a ladder to the store? Because the best deals were through the roof!

Why do Christmas cookies always feel so confident? Because they're full of self-“elf” esteem.

Jokes About Beloved Christmas Stories
How does Good King Wenceslas like his pizzas? One that's deep pan, crisp and even.
Why did no one bid for Rudolph and Blitzen on eBay? Because they were two deer.
Why is the Grinch such a good gardener? He has a green thumb—and a heart that grew three sizes!
Why didn’t Scrooge enjoy his steak? Because it was bah-humbug-ers and mash.

Jokes About Christmas Trees

What do Christmas trees get when they go numb? Pines and needles!

Who is a Christmas tree's favorite singer? Spruce Springsteen.

Why was the Christmas tree so bad at knitting? It kept dropping its needles.

Why don’t Christmas trees like going to the barber? They’re afraid of getting trimmed.

Jokes About Snowmen 

What do you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire? Frostbite.

What do you call a snowman who vacations in the tropics? A puddle.

What do snowmen wear on their heads? Ice caps.

Why did the snowman want a carrot? He was picking his nose.

The Eve of Magic

 Anticipation is a wonderful feeling, provided you’re anticipating something wonderful. And few things in life create that delicious mix of excitement, nostalgia, and lightly controlled chaos quite like Christmas. Today’s reflection is about that particular moment two days before Christmas Eve, the true eve of magic, when the whole world seems to be leaning forward ever so slightly, listening for sleigh bells that haven’t yet begun to ring.

I remember when my children were young and the lead-up to Christmas moved at a completely different pace. Time did funny things in those days. For adults, December slipped by like a sled on an icy hill, fast and slightly out of control. But for children? Each day crawled by with all the speed of a sleepy turtle wearing wool socks.

The season always began with sky-watching. In the West Coast rain belt, snow in late December was rare enough to feel like celestial improvisation. We’d wake up, pull aside the curtains, and look out at the familiar drizzle coating the sidewalks like someone had sprayed everything with a dull mist of forgetfulness. Cold? Yes. Rain? Naturally. But snow? Not likely. At sea level, snow usually made its appearance in February, just in time to annoy commuters rather than enchant children.

Yet the little ones kept faith. “Maybe tonight,” they’d whisper, pressing their noses against foggy windows, leaving smudged shapes that looked vaguely like reindeer footprints if you squinted. They hoped for snow because they believed, quite logically, that Santa required it the same way a fish requires water. Their concern reached a peak one year when my youngest asked, her eyes wide with worry, “How will Santa move if there’s no snow? Will he get stuck?”

That was when we reminded them, gently, with great parental authority, that the reindeer fly. That small detail had apparently slipped their minds in the midst of all the weather-related logistics. The relief on their faces was immediate. Crisis averted. Santa’s travel plan remained intact.

As the years went on, the eve of magic took on a different tone for me, one less centred on snowstorms and more on the annual terror of last-minute shopping. You’d think I would have learned. You really would. But every year, without fail, there I was on December 22, blending in with dozens of panicked individuals clutching half-empty coffees and scanning bare store shelves for anything that whispered, “thoughtful gift” instead of “desperation purchase.”

Meanwhile, my wife and children, models of efficiency, had long since completed their shopping, wrapped everything beautifully, tied ribbons with mathematical precision, baked enough cookies to supply an army, and tucked themselves into the glow of candlelight to enjoy their well-earned serenity. They were the picture of Christmas calm.

I, on the other hand, had two speeds: frantic and more frantic.

The truth, of course, is that I only ever shopped for one person: my wife. I’d like to say I hunted for the perfect gift, but realistically, I hunted for anything that might plausibly survive the “return it in three days” test. She always pretended to love whatever I chose, bless her, even if I caught her quietly exchanging it later for something more… wearable, usable, or recognizably practical. Occasionally she would simply re-gift it, a decision I only discovered years later when I saw a cousin wearing a scarf I had never once seen leave our house in its brief, unfortunate existence as her wardrobe accessory.

Despite the chaos, I somehow managed to find something each year that felt heartfelt. Perhaps a book she’d already read (and would read again, she said charitably), or a kitchen gadget she insisted she didn’t need but enjoyed anyway. Or one year, in a stroke of panic-induced brilliance, a small snow globe that, to her credit, she kept. Maybe because it reminded her of the children’s earlier hopes for snow, or maybe because it was harder to return a snow globe without looking suspicious.

But what truly mattered was not the gift, it was the ritual. The shared laughter. The anticipation that danced in the air like sparkles from those candles they lit while I was out frantically buying whatever was left on the shelves.

Those evenings were full of sensory magic. The warm glow of candles flickering on the mantle. The soft crackling of wrapping paper. The faint scent of sugar cookies lingering in the kitchen, refusing to be banished no matter how many times the oven door opened. Outside, the damp night air carried the smell of cedar and wet pavement, our coastal version of holiday ambiance. Inside, the children hummed carols off-key, practicing for no one in particular.

It was, in its own imperfect way, beautiful.

Even now, when the children are grown and the shopping list is blessedly shorter, the eve of magic still arrives. It comes quietly. Gently. Like a familiar friend stepping through the door with snow on their shoulders, even if the snow is imaginary.

Two days before Christmas Eve, the world seems to pause. We feel it in the slowing of our own breath, in the softness of the light, in the memory of small faces pressed against cold windows. There is a hush that isn’t silence at all, but rather anticipation, thousands of heartbeats leaning forward, waiting for something joyful, something tender, something familiar.

And so, as this eve of magic approaches, perhaps we can allow ourselves a moment. Step back from the to-do lists. Light a candle and watch it flicker. Let the memories warm us like a favourite blanket. Christmas Eve is almost here. And the joyful day will soon be upon us, carrying with it the timeless gift of anticipation, one we’re never too old to unwrap.