The Gift of Christmas

It can’t only be the purity of white snow,

as if a winter wonderland alone could carry the weight

of something holy.

Is it found in the eyes of a child,

wide with wonder,

waiting for the man with the white beard

to slip rewards of goodness into a stocking?

Is it hidden in the warmth of tree lights

that glow like tiny memories,

or in the soft melody of Silent Night

that once felt like it healed the whole world?

These things have followed me all my life —

traditions, rituals, colors, songs —

and yet something in me knows

the true gift of Christmas

was never wrapped in any of them.

Somewhere, along the years,

the familiar glow dimmed.

Not gone — just quiet.

As if life became heavier

than twinkling lights could lift.

As if the places where magic once lived

have been rearranged by loss,

by change,

by a heart that has seen too much

and still carries on.

But Christmas…

the real Christmas…

is Love.

Not the decorated kind,

not the packaged kind,

not the performed kind.

It is the love that breathes quietly,

that remembers who we miss,

that aches and hopes at the same time,

that whispers of heaven

in ways the world cannot understand.

So why has the light grown dim?

Maybe because the older we become,

the more we learn that the spirit of Christmas

is not something we feel —

it’s something we open to.

Maybe it isn’t a switch

waiting to be flipped back on.

Perhaps it is a flame,

a love remembered,

a presence missed.

The gift of Christmas is not lost.

It is simply deeper now,

hiding beneath the noiseless places,

waiting for the Heart that has lived,

loved,

broken,

and risen

to notice its quiet glow again.

And when it returns —

as softly as snowfall,

as gently as breath —

you will know.

Because Christmas lives

where love lives.

And love,

no matter how quiet,

never goes dark.