Christmas Day 2025

A few years ago, my daughter-in-law gave our family a gift we didn’t know we needed: she suggested we start a new family Christmas tradition—a full-on gingerbread house-making event.

It was one of those “why didn’t we do this sooner?” ideas. A tradition you can sense the whole family adopting, year after year, until it becomes a seasonal landmark: “It’s gingerbread weekend.” It’s creative, playful, and—because we’re us—just competitive enough to keep things interesting (sometimes too interesting). The kind of ritual that turns into family lore.

And… it’s also stressful.

This year we had twin grand-babies crawling around like tiny Roombas with opinions, plus a four- and five-year-old doing “quality control” by tasting every structural component. There were snacks, bottles, naps, candy within reach of small hands, and one moment where I had to step away and reboot my nervous system like an old laptop.

But there was also another soundtrack playing subversively behind the Christmas playlist.

Because while the scene itself looks nostalgic—kids laughing, music playing, everyone bonding—there’s also the live undercurrent of family being family. The competitive jab about someone’s design. The “harmless” remark that lands like a paper cut. And the constant, exhausting choreography of “How do I keep everyone okay?”—which is like trying to juggle lit sparklers.

And it’s all at once: the joyful and the sad, the playful and the prickly, the gracious and the offended—like an orchestra tuning up. A whole lot of noise, yes… but always carrying the stubborn possibility of becoming a beautiful song.

Which is why my personal gingerbread journey this year was both enlightening and somewhat humbling.

I have opinions about design. I like things to look like someone cared. I want the house to have an architectural plan, a purpose, a narrative arc and—let’s be honest—at least some aesthetic dignity.

But this year I was wedged between a four-year-old and a five-year-old who were operating at the highest level of creative anarchy. Their blueprint was: impulse + delight + icing. Squeeze. Stick. Repeat. Pretzels where pretzels should never be. Marshmallows attached to nothing. Candy in random places because it was shiny and available.

And as I tried—gently, lovingly—to guide the build toward something that resembled coherent design, I kept meeting their eyes: pure joy. They weren’t building a “house.” They were embracing a moment. And I was the one who needed to learn the difference.

And then it hit me: this is what family life is actually like.

Not a curated photo. Not a perfect vibe. Not an uninterrupted stream of warmth.

It’s a room full of different nervous systems, different needs, different histories, different expectations—jostling together in the same space. It’s joy and suffering sharing a table. It’s the beautiful and the hard happening simultaneously.

Which is why today—Christmas Day, as you’re reading this—might feel a lot like a gingerbread house weekend.

Some of you are waking up to a warm, easy day: laughter, food, safety, love, a sense of thank God, we get to be together. And some of you are waking up to a complicated day: grief, tension, loneliness, exhaustion, anxiety, the ache of an empty chair, or the stress of being around people you love… and also struggle with.

If there’s one thing I want to offer today, it’s this: don’t make your goal that everything will be “good.”

Make space for what’s real—because love meets us in truth, not perfection. When we feel seen and heard, we become more grounded… and that’s where the good in us has room to show up.

Real is where we stop performing and start seeing each other. It’s where we can celebrate and mourn, hold joy without denying pain, and hold pain without canceling joy. It’s where we learn to know and be known—to love and be loved—right in the middle of the mess.

So here’s my invitation for today. Somewhere in the rhythm of your gathering—at the dinner table, in the family room, or any moment you find yourselves together—create a little space for what’s real. And as you listen, see if you can notice the spark of goodness in the person in front of you—and respond to that. Don’t force it. But if the moment feels right, you might offer these two questions:

For some, the answers will come quickly. For others, it may take time to decide whether they want to be vulnerable. Your role isn’t to make it mandatory, or fast, or tidy—and it’s certainly not to fix, debate, or explain. It’s simply to help create a safe space where each person can know and be known, and where there’s room to express what’s real.