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.

The Gift of Quiet

Every December, just when the days grow shortest and the nights longest, the world seems determined to speed up. It’s as if someone pressed a giant holiday “fast-forward” button. People rush here, there, and everywhere coats flying behind them like superhero capes, mittens left behind on counters, and shopping lists held together with hope and tape. Even the air seems to hum with the frantic energy of “must do… must get… must remember…”

I’m not immune. I catch myself thinking, I have to visit everyone on my list, naughty and nice. (And let’s be honest, the naughty ones are far more fun to visit.) Then come the questions that never quite have answers: Where do I get the right present for Sid? What does Sandy even want? Should I buy her something she needs or something she’ll never use but will laugh about?

These questions swirl around my head like snowflakes in a windstorm, except snow eventually lands. My thoughts, however, just keep circling, keeping me focused on doing rather than enjoying.

And that’s when I remember the quiet.

Not the absence of sound that’s rare in December, unless one lives deep in the forest with only the squirrels for company but the kind of quiet that settles inside you. The quiet that arrives when you stop moving long enough to let your shoulders drop, your mind rest, and your breath deepen. The quiet that reminds you that joy doesn’t need to be wrapped, purchased, or delivered before December 25th.

Some of my favourite holiday memories the ones that never fade are made of exactly that kind of stillness.

I think back to childhood evenings when the world outside the window seemed soundless. Snow fell like a gentle curtain, and the only light in the room came from the glowing Christmas tree. My mother, who came from Romania, loved those soft, peaceful evenings. She would stand quietly for a moment, looking at the lights the way some people look at paintings in a museum slowly, reverently, with a little sigh of contentment. Even as children, we knew to tiptoe a bit in those moments, as if we were witnessing something sacred.

The scent of pine, the low crackle from the radiator, the warm hum of someone wrapping presents in the next room those small details created a hush that felt like a gift in itself. A gift you didn’t need to open, only notice.

These days, I look forward to the same thing. I look forward to the rare pockets of silence I can claim during the holidays, like a bird collecting twigs to build a nest: a good book waiting on the side table, a chair that fits my back just right, a hot drink that warms my hands before it warms my insides. The simple luxury of sitting still.

You know the feeling: that moment when you finally sink into your favourite chair and let out a sigh so deep it could deflate a snowman. That moment when the sounds of the world soften into the background, a distant kettle, a neighbour’s laugh, a car hurrying down the street and you realize you’re not missing anything. Not one thing.

Quiet doesn’t mean isolation. It means presence.

And perhaps that’s what makes it such a powerful gift during a season that pushes us toward more errands, more noise, more plans, more expectations. Quiet helps us return to ourselves. It reminds us that our own company can be enough. That appreciation grows best in stillness. That peace is not an accident; it’s a choice.

When we give ourselves the gift of quiet even just a few minutes we become better at noticing the small joys: the way holiday lights reflect in a windowpane, the scent of oranges and cloves, the satisfying crunch of fresh snow under boots, the warmth of a handwritten card. These are the moments we miss when we’re racing.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t celebrate the season in all its glorious bustle. The holiday hustle has its charm too, especially when people overflow with the cup of human kindness. There’s something beautiful in the way friends gather, neighbours share treats, and strangers hold doors with a “Happy Holidays!” that sounds like an invitation to smile.

But quiet is what helps us appreciate the bustle instead of being buried by it.

So, this year, I invite you to create your own small sanctuaries of stillness. Light a candle. Sit beside the tree. Watch the snow fall. Let the world rush while you pause long enough to feel your feet on the floor and your breath in your chest. Choose moments that feel like peace wrapped in a soft blanket.

Because in a season filled with gifts, big, small, practical, sentimental, the greatest one might be the gift we give ourselves: a few precious moments of quiet.

It’s amazing how much joy can grow in silence.

Christmas Around the World

One of the things I’ve always loved about living in Canada is that, in many ways, we celebrate Christmas with the whole world. We are a country of immigrants, layers of cultures, accents, recipes, songs, and stories woven into something uniquely Canadian. My own family history is a perfect example. My mother’s parents arrived from Romania, my grandfather in 1902 and my grandmother in 1904, carrying with them little more than faith, determination, and the memory of the holiday traditions they left behind. My father’s father came north from the United States in the 1920s, and his mother’s family had emigrated from Ireland way back in the 1840s, long before anyone thought to take a photo of a family Christmas tree.

As each generation settled in and became “more Canadian,” something subtle happened: a quiet trimming away of the old customs. Not all at once, and not with any disrespect, just the natural process of trying to fit in. Maybe a Romanian dish gave way to turkey and stuffing. Maybe the Irish carols were replaced by Bing Crosby. Maybe no one knew what to do with a Romanian nut-filled cozonac once packaged Christmas cake hit the shelves. Whatever the reason, those traditions softened and faded, like decorations left too long in the sun.

But here’s the beautiful twist: while our grandparents worked so hard to blend in, Canada eventually grew into a country that celebrates standing out. Today you can walk down a single street and pass Italian panettone wrapped like a sweet treasure, Filipino parols glowing like colourful stars, Mexican tamales steaming in kitchen baskets, and Ukrainian Christmas bread braided with love and memory. Christmas here is no longer one set of traditions, it’s a mosaic of moments shared by cultures around the globe.

Although I never experienced Christmas the way my Romanian or Irish ancestors might have, I did get to taste “Christmas around the world” in my own way through travel. And each place offered its own version of holiday magic.

Mexico, for example, greeted us with an explosion of colour that made even our brightest Canadian lights look a little shy. There, Christmas doesn’t tiptoe in, it bursts through the door with music, dancing, and enough food to feed three neighbourhoods. The air was warm, scented with cinnamon, fried dough, and the earthy sweetness of corn masa. I’ll admit, it’s hard to feel winter wonderland-ish while wearing a short-sleeved shirt, but somehow the spirit of the season still found its way in. I remember watching families gather in the plaza, children whacking away at piñatas shaped like stars, and I thought: This is Christmas too, just painted with different colours.

Then there was Hawaii, where Christmas trees sit patiently in living rooms while outside the palm trees wave like they’re wishing everyone Mele Kalikimaka. There’s something delightfully odd about listening to “Let It Snow” while your feet are wrapped in warm sand and the ocean hums behind you. Instead of the comforting smell of turkey roasting, I smelled grilled pineapple, sea salt, and sunscreen. Yet somehow the holiday glow felt just as genuine. Families gathered for big meals, grandparents, aunties, uncles, cousins, everyone talking over one another in the same joyful way families do everywhere. Under those soft island skies, I felt a familiar truth: home isn’t a place on a map; it’s the feeling of belonging.

And then there was Australia, where Christmas comes not with snowflakes but with sun, surf, and the faint smell of eucalyptus drifting on the breeze. My daughter and grandson live there, and though we haven’t always been able to spend the holiday together, the times we have are unforgettable. Australians take full advantage of the weather, beach barbecues, prawns instead of turkey, and homemade pavlovas topped with fruit so fresh you can smell the sweetness from across the table. One year, in the middle of Christmas lunch, a kookaburra landed on the back fence and laughed at us, literally laughed. Try keeping a straight face during grace when a bird is heckling your family gathering.

What I’ve learned through all of this is simple: Christmas doesn’t belong to one place or one culture. It adapts. It evolves. It welcomes new flavours, new sounds, and new ways of celebrating. And when we open our hearts to these traditions, whether from our ancestors or from our neighbours, we discover that the holiday spirit is big enough to hold them all.

Many Canadian seniors grew up thinking Christmas looked only one way: a tree, a turkey, and a snowy yard. But now, in communities across the country, we share holiday tables with friends and neighbours whose roots stretch far beyond our borders. And what a wonderful gift that is. Each tradition adds another layer of warmth to the season, another candle in the window, another story to tell, another taste to savour.

If you’re spending Christmas at home this year, consider adding a global twist to your celebration. Bake that Italian panettone you’ve always eyed at the grocery store. Hang a Filipino parol in your window. Try Mexican hot chocolate with its touch of spice. Or simply ask a neighbour about their holiday traditions, you might be invited to try something new (and delicious).

Because whether it’s celebrated in the snow, the sun, or somewhere in between, Christmas around the world carries the same heart: generosity, connection, hope, and the quiet reminder that we all belong to a much larger family than we realize.

And that, I think, is a gift worth passing on.

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.