11/25/2025
The longer I live, the more I understand that Christmas isn’t something you buy, it’s something you feel.
It settles into the quiet corners of your heart and whispers,
“Slow down. Be here. Remember what matters.”
The longer I live, the more grateful I become for small, gentle things
a warm mug between my palms,
a soft robe around my shoulders,
the glow of a tree that still twinkles
just the way it did when I was a child.
Back then, Christmas was magic, loud and bright and bursting with anticipation.
I counted days, gifts, cookies…
never imagining that someday
I’d count moments instead.
Moments with the people I love.
Moments of peace.
Moments so precious
I tuck them away like fragile ornaments
I never want to break.
The longer I live,
the more I hear my mother’s voice:
“Enjoy it. It goes fast.”
I didn’t believe her then.
But now, with a cup of cocoa warming my hands
and years tucked gently behind me,
I find myself whispering those same words
to anyone rushing through their days.
The longer I live,
the quieter Christmas becomes
not emptier,
but fuller in a softer way.
Full in the way a deep breath feels.
Full in a glow that doesn’t shout
but rests gently
in the corners where memories sit like old friends.
The longer I live,
the more my heart holds both joy and ache
joy for the faces still gathered,
ache for the ones whose chairs are now empty.
Yet somehow
that blend of feeling
makes the season richer,
holier,
more tender than ever before.
The longer I live,
the more I see that the real miracle of Christmas is never wrapped in paper
or tied with ribbon.
It’s in laughter drifting from another room.
It’s in familiar songs you hum
without noticing.
It’s in the warmth of the fire,
the softness of the lights,
and the quiet peace God settles into your soul
when you remember
why this season came at all.
And the longer I live,
the more I treasure nights like this
warm, quiet, gentle
reminding me that aging is a privilege,
and every December I’m still here
to feel even a flicker of its magic
is a blessing I hold close.
Because the longer I live,
the more clearly I see
Christmas isn’t just a season.
It’s a gift.