Someone asked me recently, “How was your Christmas?”
Without hesitation, I answered, “It was the best Christmas we’ve had so far.”
And it truly was—not because it was perfect, but because it was rooted in communication, unity, and love.
We didn’t do much of anything this Christmas season. Work for me was intense—days filled with commitments, deadlines, and endless to-dos. By the end of each day, I was too tired for much else. And yet, I didn’t dread it. I’ve learned there are seasons for gathering and socializing, and seasons for slowing down, for turning inward. This was one of those quieter seasons—and that was okay. I welcome them all.
Our oldest daughter moved out a few years ago, and life shifts in subtle but profound ways when that happens. Even though we talk often, our lives have been busy, and we hadn’t seen her in person for a while. So when she told us she’d have the week of Christmas off and wanted to come home for Christmas, it felt like the most beautiful music.
She arrived the day before Christmas Eve and stayed for a full week.
The four of us—together, under the same roof—was our Christmas miracle. We cooked together. We shared long meals at the dining table. We watched movies and shows, talked, laughed, dilly-dallied. We did a whole lot of everything… and a whole lot of nothing. We chose not to go out. We chose to stay in and soak in the moments. And it was wonderful.
But there was one moment that brought me to real tears.
A gift from Bella, and a gift from Michelle—each chosen independently, unaware of what the other had picked. Looking back now, I see how beautifully connected they were, how thoughtfully and lovingly they spoke to the same place in my heart.
Michelle gave me the book On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong, one of my favorite authors. A novel written as a son’s letter to his mother—a powerful meditation on belonging, love, memory, and finding beauty even when life feels fragile and fleeting.
Bella gave me a framed photograph from a time when my mother was visiting us. She was in her mid-50s. She’s walking beside Stan, who is holding Bella in his arms. My mother is looking up at the sky, bathed in natural light, smiling with a joy that seems to radiate from within.
That photo is special not only because of the people in it, or the way older photos carry a weight of memory—but because my mother has been legally blind for over a decade now. She can no longer look up and see the world the way she once did. What she sees now are shadows, shapes, fragments.
And yet, the spirit shining through her smile in that photograph—the joy, hope, and quiet strength—has never left her. Though her vision has faded, her heart, her soul, her faith remain fully intact. Her endurance, her love, her hope in the face of loss—those have been among the greatest gifts she has given me.
There is something deeply beautiful in the connection between the book and the photograph. A reminder that even if our time on earth is brief, even if beauty feels fleeting, the light within us is not bound by what our eyes can see.
As long as we continue to look up—with our hearts, our faith, our love—our light can always shine.
