No Gift Compares to the Warmth of Family Gathered Around the Table

The older I get, the more convinced I am that the true currency of Christmas has never been what sits under the tree, it's who sits around the table. The warmth of family isn’t wrapped, shipped, or tracked in real time; it’s shared in stories, laughter, and the clatter of plates that sound suspiciously like memories being served. And like many seniors, I now see those treasured gatherings through a softer, more reflective lens.

My daughter and my only grandson live all the way in Australia, beautiful country, very far away, and entirely too sunny at Christmas for a Canadian father who believes snow is required for proper festivities. We don’t get to spend the holiday with them as often as we’d love, though we still try to bridge the ocean with video calls that always seem to feature someone talking while muted. My son and his partner join us each year, even if only for part of the day. Their short visits still feel like a gift, one of the quiet, heartfelt kind that settles in your chest long after the door closes.

And like so many of us, the people we once gathered with, our parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, are no longer at the table, though they remain at the centre of our stories. When I think back, it’s the joyful chaos I remember most: the tables extended with mismatched leaves, the precarious tower of folding chairs collected from every corner of the house, and the scent of roasting turkey weaving its way into every wool sweater. We squeezed in elbow-to-elbow, half the adults pretending not to mind being stuck at the “kids’ table” because it had the better desserts.

Not once in those memories do I recall unwrapping a present and thinking, Ah yes, this is the meaning of Christmas. Instead, it was the sound of familiar voices, the way someone always burned the first batch of something, and how the stories grew longer, and less factual, with each retelling. Those gatherings shimmer now like scenes from a faded film reel, precious because they can’t be recreated, only cherished.

But here’s the truth about life as we age: families spread out. Loved ones pass on. Traditions shift. And sometimes, the table becomes quieter than we’d like. Many seniors know the hollow ache that comes when chairs sit empty and distances grow long, not just geographically, but emotionally, too.

Yet Christmas can still be warm, joyful, and deeply meaningful, even when the guest list looks different than it once did.

For those whose families are far away, like my daughter and grandson, connection still finds its way in. Technology, once something many of us eyed with suspicion, now lets us share a smile, a recipe, a toast, and sometimes even the joyful noise of a child unwrapping a gift an entire day earlier because time zones make their own rules. If your family is just a screen away, plan something small but shared: eat the same dessert, light a candle at the same moment, exchange stories of your holiday weather. The distance feels shorter when rituals stretch across continents.

For those who don’t have family nearby, or who may be spending Christmas alone, remember that family isn’t limited to bloodlines, it’s built through affection, kindness, and shared moments. Many seniors create what I call a “circle of holiday warmth neighbours, friends, volunteers, or fellow community members who gather for a cup of cocoa, a potluck dinner, or even a simple walk to admire the neighbourhood lights. A small group can create a big sense of belonging.

Libraries, senior centres, churches, and community groups often host holiday meals or gatherings. Sometimes it takes courage to show up, but once you’re there, you’ll find others who are looking for connection too. You might walk in alone and walk out with a new friend, or at the very least, a full plate and a full heart.

And if mobility, health, or weather keeps you indoors, create a holiday for yourself. Truly. Put on the music you love, cook something that smells like your childhood, or dig out old photos and let yourself smile at every hairstyle you swore was fashionable at the time. (Some of us have entire decades we could blame on the barber.) Nostalgia has its own warmth, and it’s a companion willing to sit as long as you want.

You can also reach out by phone to someone else who might be alone; the gift of your voice can be as comforting as the crackle of a fireplace. A ten-minute call can feel like slipping an extra log on the emotional hearth.

Whether your table is full, partly full, or missing a few beloved faces this year, the heart of Christmas remains the same: connection. The warmth we feel comes not from perfection, but from presence, however that presence arrives. A shared meal, a memory spoken aloud, a small tradition revived, or even a wish whispered across thousands of kilometres.

No gift, no matter how shiny or carefully wrapped, can compare to that moment when we feel ourselves belonging, to family, to friends, to the past that shaped us, and to the life we are still living with gratitude.

So, this Christmas, whether your table is loud or quiet, crowded or cozy, may it be filled with warmth. May you feel surrounded, not just by those who are with you, but by the love of those who once were, and the hope of those you’ve yet to meet.

A Pet’s Christmas

For those who know me well, especially my friends who share their homes with dogs, cats, birds, or something exotic enough to require a manual, this post may come as a surprise my wife and I don’t currently have a pet. So, why would I write about pets and Xmas. Good question, no real answer except that when I was talking to my daughter she as telling us a story about her cat and the Christmas tree and it reminded me of eaarlier itmes.

The last pet that truly shared our home and our hearts was a cat who lived with us for nearly eighteen years. She left us about fifteen years ago, and while we’ve had opportunities to adopt again, somehow it hasn’t happened. Life shifted. The house quieted. And yet, all these years later, certain memories still arrive at Christmas wrapped in the soft rustle of the past, paws on carpet, ornaments swaying, and the unmistakable sense that pets experience this season in a way all their own.

 We did, however, find ourselves with a dog for a while, eleven pounds of inherited responsibility courtesy of my mother-in-law. Because of her illness, we became the “temporary” caregivers who, as these things go, eventually became the full-time and always-available owners.

 So yes, we had the full experience: a cat who believed she owned us and a dog who was certain we existed solely for his entertainment.

And Christmas? Well, Christmas brought out their best… and their most mischievous.

I can still picture our cat as a kitten the first year we brought out the holiday decorations. The moment the box opened, she was inside it, head first, tail sticking straight up like an exclamation mark. Every ornament became a toy. Every piece of tinsel became a challenge. And the tree, oh, that poor innocent tree, became less a symbol of peace and more a climbing gym designed exclusively for her personal development.

There is nothing quite like sipping a cup of holiday tea in the evening, listening to carols, admiring the warm glow of the tree… and then hearing the faint jing-jing-jing of an ornament being batted around by a creature who has decided that nighttime is the perfect moment for athletic pursuits.

We learned to space ornaments strategically:

Unbreakables at the bottom.

Sentimental treasures higher up.

Anything fragile? Well, we learned to love it from a distance.

The dog, on the other hand, approached Christmas with the enthusiasm of a toddler and the coordination of a tiny moose. His first holiday with us involved a full-speed slide across the hardwood floor that ended with him nose-first in a pile of garland. He wasn’t hurt, quite the opposite. He emerged proudly, garland wrapped around him like he was auditioning for a festive parade.

I remember walking into the living room once and seeing him sitting beside the tree, looking unbelievably pleased with himself, while a single ornament lay at his feet, a casualty of enthusiasm rather than malice. His expression seemed to say, “You’re welcome. I have improved the décor.”

Pets, even when they don’t fully understand the holidays, somehow feel them. They sense the warmth, the changes in routine, the visitors, the rustle of wrapping paper, and the smells, oh, the smells. A roasting turkey can draw a dog from three rooms away and cause a cat to sit in the kitchen doorway with the regal patience of British royalty awaiting a state dinner.

And pet owners? We’re no better. In fact, I’d argue we’re worse.

We decorate.

We wrap.

We shop.

We fret.

It may be easier to get your spouse the perfect Christmas gift than to choose something for the pet, because every pet has preferences. Some adore a plush toy; others prefer the indestructible variety (or think they’re indestructible). Cats may sniff a new bed with suspicion only to sleep in the box it came in. Dogs may love the gourmet treats you bought… or reject them in favour of the same plain biscuit they’ve had daily for years.

But we keep trying because we love the joy that pets bring to the holidays.

Even if you don’t currently have a pet, you can’t help but smile at the stories from others. The Labradoodle who steals the stockings. The cat who naps in the Nativity scene as if she were the twelfth apostle. The senior dog who waits patiently for his annual Christmas photo, wearing a festive hat with the dignity of a seasoned model.

Pets remind us of something essential this time of year:

joy is found in the moment.

delight hides in the small things.

love is often expressed without a single word.

Looking back, our home felt fuller during those years, not just because of the decorations or the number of people coming and going, but because of the extra heartbeat under the roof. Pets bring a unique kind of warmth, a gentle humour, and a dose of unpredictability that blends beautifully with the holiday season. Even now, when I see friends posting photos of their pets in Christmas sweaters or tangled in wrapping paper, I feel that familiar tug of nostalgia.

Maybe one day we’ll open our home to a pet again. Or maybe their Christmas cameos will remain in the warm chapters of memory. Either way, the stories stay with us, the jingling ornaments, the quiet purrs, the wagging tails, the sparkle of mischief in their eyes.

Because pets, in their own way, celebrate Christmas right alongside us.

And perhaps more honestly than anyone else, they remind us that joy isn’t something we create once a year, it’s something we share daily, in small moments, with the beings who make our lives feel full.

The tree’s up, the cat’s in it. Pets make Christmas merrier (and messier).

Days of Kindness

December has a way of softening the world, or at least reminding us that it can be softened. The air feels crisper, as if it’s been freshly washed; lights twinkle on rooftops; and even the grocery store seems to hum with a quieter kind of goodwill. There’s something about this season that brings out our longing to give, to brighten someone else’s day, to feel connected.

And yet, in the rush toward Christmas, many of us fall into the trap of thinking that only the grand gestures count, the oversized donations, the extravagant gifts, the “surprise news segment” stories that go viral. But if I’ve learned anything over the past 70+ years, it’s that the real heart of the season lies in the small, everyday acts we offer one another.

This year, I’m encouraging everyone to start today and do one simple act of kindness each day until Christmas. Nothing complicated, nothing heroic. Just tiny sparks of goodwill. Little lights that add up. Let’s light up lives, one smile at a time.

I think of a friend of mine who lives this truth year-round. When he passes someone asking for help on the street, he doesn’t reach for his wallet. Instead, he stops. He looks the person in the eye. He listens, really listens, as they share whatever part of their story they feel ready to tell.

And when they’re finished, he doesn’t offer a lecture or advice. He simply asks, with calm sincerity:
“Would you like to join me for lunch or breakfast?”

Sometimes the person says yes. Sometimes they don’t. But either way, my friend offers the rarest gift many people receive: the gift of being seen.

He tells me that’s what most people want, not money, not pity, but recognition that they aren’t invisible. That they matter. And isn’t that the heart of kindness? Not the value of the gesture, but the value of the human being in front of us.

At this time of year, everyone wants to spread joy. You can almost feel it in the air, like cinnamon warming in the oven. But somewhere along the way, many people start believing that kindness must be big to be meaningful.

Yet think back on your own life. How many times did a small word or gesture help you through a hard day? A smile from a stranger? Someone holding a door? A neighbour waving from across their yard? A handwritten note tucked under your door when you least expected it?

Those are the things that linger long after the tinsel is boxed up.

When I was younger, long before everything became digital and instant, December was filled with these small human moments, those little ripples of kindness that seemed to tie the community together. Neighbours dropped off plates of shortbread wrapped in wax paper. Children sang carols door-to-door in slightly off-key but enthusiastic harmony. Someone always shoveled someone else’s walkway “just because.” And you could tell, even then, that these weren’t grand gestures, they were invitations to connection.

Kindness today can be just as simple.

Smile at a stranger while you’re out for a walk.
Say hello to the people you pass.
Phone an old friend just to check in.
Offer to pick something up for a neighbour.
Let someone go ahead of you in line.
Compliment a clerk who has clearly had a long day.
Notice someone who looks alone, and offer a moment of warmth.

Even joy itself can be a gentle act of kindness. If you’ve ever stopped to listen to carolers, even the ones who are a little unsure of the lyrics, you know how powerful music can be. There’s something magical about hearing voices blend in the cold December air. It reminds us that connection doesn’t always require conversation; sometimes it only requires listening.

In the evenings, when the streets glow with holiday lights and the sound of laughter floats through open doorways, it becomes easier to remember that joy doesn’t need an audience. Kindness doesn’t need applause. It only needs intention.

And here’s the beautiful thing: once you start offering small acts of kindness, you notice more opportunities to give them. It becomes almost like a quiet treasure hunt. You realize how many people around you could use a little lift, and how often you can be the one to give it.

If we each commit to one small act a day between now and Christmas, imagine the ripple we could create. Not a tidal wave, not a spectacle, just gentle waves of goodwill traveling from person to person, warming homes and hearts one moment at a time.

Let this be our December tradition:
Kindness. Spread joy. Keep the Christmas spirit alive in the little things.

Because the smallest lights often shine the brightest, especially in winter. And sometimes, all it takes is a single smile to remind someone that the world is still full of goodness.

The Newlywed Dilemma

 Every December brings its own little rituals, the scent of pine needles clinging to winter coats, the faint hum of carols floating through grocery store speakers, and the familiar tug of memories asking us to step back into stories we’ve lived a hundred times before. But it also brings a very particular holiday challenge, one that couples of all ages know all too well: whose family do we spend Christmas Day with?

It is a debate wrapped in love, sprinkled with tension, and basted in gravy. And, for many of us, it has shaped years of holiday traditions.

In the early days of our marriage, my wife and I tried very hard to be fair, or at least festive, about the whole thing. Christmas Day itself belonged to her side of the family, and the day after Boxing day was reserved for mine. It wasn’t so much a carefully negotiated agreement as it was a simple recognition of geography and personalities. I knew my brothers would gather at my parents’ house on the 25th, and I also knew that my wife’s family had perfected the art of the grand holiday feast.

And what a feast it was.

Imagine a kitchen that smelled like roasted turkey, brown sugar ham, and that distinctly comforting aroma of potatoes baking slowly under a crust of cheese and butter. Imagine a parade of relatives, some I suspected had been hiding in the basement awaiting their cue, bursting through the door with desserts, gifts, and enough stories to fuel the evening. You could hear laughter before you even opened the door, as if joy had its own volume knob turned up to eleven.

By early afternoon, the house was full. By late evening, it was very full, children chasing each other between legs, adults balancing plates on knees, and the unmistakable murmur of contentment that comes from people who have eaten far more than they should but intend to continue anyway.

Boxing Day became the day dedicated to visiting friends. We’d start at 10:00 a.m. sharp, well, “sharp” in a loose, holiday sense, and make our rounds like social Santas delivering good cheer. There was hot cocoa in one home, shortbread in another, and those slightly experimental holiday beverages someone always insists “turned out better last year.” But the joy was in the journey: the hugs, the updates, the shared laughter, and the quiet comfort of knowing these friendships shaped the landscape of our lives.

Then came the ferry rides to Vancouver Island to visit my side of the family. If you’ve ever carried a tin of cookies and two small children through a crowded holiday ferry terminal, you know it’s an Olympic sport all on its own. The reward, though, was always the same: stepping off the boat into the bracing, salty air and falling back into the familiar rhythm of my own family’s traditions, stories told loudly, the same jokes told even louder, and desserts that seemed to multiply every time someone walked into the kitchen.

For a few years after our children were born, we kept this holiday marathon going. We packed the car with toys, travel mugs, and the unwavering optimism of young parents. But eventually, reality, and exhaustion, caught up with us. One year, after buckling a very sleepy toddler into a car seat on Christmas evening, my wife and I looked at each other and realized we needed a new plan.

And so, we made one.
We decided it was time to create our own traditions in our own home.

That first Christmas felt different. Quieter. Less rushed. The house had its own warmth, our warmth. The tree lights glowed softly against the windows, the children padded around in new pajamas, and we hosted Christmas dinner for whoever wished to join us. We invited friends on Boxing Day, turning it into a relaxed open house where snacks appeared as if by magic and the coffee pot never stopped working. It was simple, but it was ours. We belonged to ourselves for the holiday, and somehow that felt like the best gift of all.

This memory bubbled up again recently when I was talking to my daughter about her holiday plans. She lives in Australia now, far from snow, ferry terminals, and the great Canadian turkey debate. She is blissfully exempt from the gentle tug-of-war that many couples still find themselves in, including my son and his partner: your family’s turkey or mine?

It’s a classic dilemma. One filled with love, loyalty, compromise, and the occasional burnt gravy. And yet, for all the fuss it creates, it’s also a sign of something wonderfully human: that we care deeply about where we belong, and with whom we share our holidays.

Whether you spend Christmas Day with your side, their side, a mix of both, or wrapped in the cozy quiet of your own home, the heart of the season remains the same. Love stretches. Traditions bend. New stories are created in the most unexpected ways.

And in the end, as I like to say, love finds a way, even through the mashed potatoes.