I miss the way Christmas felt when I was a child.

The magic.
The whimsy.
The sense that something wonderful was always just about to happen.

Back then, Christmas arrived already glowing.
I didn’t wonder how it got that way.
I just believed.

Now, I see it differently.

Tonight is Christmas Eve.
Dinner is done.
Craft scraps linger on the table.
And the little eyes that spent all day wide with anticipation are finally closed.

They’re asleep now.
Waiting.
Dreaming.
Trusting.

Standing in the quiet, something settles in me.

It is such an honor that God chose me to be a mother.

An exhausting honor.
An exhilarating one.

An honor that means I get to set the tone.
To shape what holidays feel like.
To create memories my children will carry long after the decorations come down.

And I’m realizing how little of that has to do with money or gifts or how everything looks.

What lasts is presence.
Connection.
The feeling of being safe, seen, and delighted in.

They won’t remember how many presents were under the tree.
They won’t remember whether the decor was perfect.

They will remember how it felt to sit together.
To laugh.
To create.
To be held in the warmth of attention.

That’s the magic.

The wonder I miss from childhood didn’t disappear.
It was entrusted.

Entrusted to me.

Tonight, as Christmas waits quietly just beyond the dark, I think of Mary.

“But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.”
— Luke 2:19

No spectacle.
No perfection.
Just presence, wonder, and a heart entrusted.

May you feel strong in the role you carry.
May you know the honor of it.
May you trust that what you’re building matters.

Hey.
It’s me again.