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.