A Christmas Reflection

Описание: A Christmas Reflection
By Preston Ivan Lewis
©2026 Deist Recording and Publishing
Snow falls quietly outside my window, each flake a fleeting whisper from the sky—telling stories older than memory, softer than breath. The neighborhood glows in that gentle December light: windows aglow with golden halos, wreaths hanging proudly, chimneys puffing dreams into the winter air. It’s in moments like this—when the world slows and the cold wraps around the earth like a thick wool blanket—that I find myself drifting, not through space, but through time.

I’m pulled back to childhood nights much like this one. The hush of snow-covered streets. The sound of boots crunching over frost.

Laughter—real, unfiltered, echoing down empty sidewalks as we built lopsided snowmen with crooked smiles and scarves too bright to ignore. I remember the way our fingers stung from the cold, but we didn’t care. We were alive with possibility.

We’d huddle on someone’s front porch, mittens steaming, recounting ghost stories or schoolyard dramas, our breath rising like spirits into the night. And when we finally stepped inside, the warmth hit like a hug. The smell of cinnamon and pine, the soft crackle of the fireplace, the radio humming a familiar carol—it all felt like magic. Not the kind from fairy tales, but something deeper. A magic woven from presence, from togetherness, from being known.

Years pass. Life stretches and bends us. We grow, we wander, we face storms that the child in us never imagined. Responsibilities pile like snowdrifts. Hearts learn to guard themselves. Yet, somehow, Christmas never stops calling us home—not always to a place, but to a feeling.

There’s something about standing beside a tree, watching the ornaments catch the light, that unlocks the heart. Each bauble, each handmade craft glued together with childhood pride, holds a chapter. That chipped angel? Grandma’s favorite. The lopsided reindeer made from popsicle sticks? My daughter’s first gift. The silver star we hang last—always—it was there the year we almost lost hope, and somehow, still found joy.

We sing the same songs. Not because they’re trendy or new, but because they’ve carried us. “Silent Night.” “O Holy Night.” “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” The melodies rise, fragile at first, then stronger—voices overlapping, some on key, some not, but all in sync with something beyond music. It’s love, rising.

And then—the reunions. Cousins from out of state. Friends we only see once a year. Relatives who argue over politics by day but toast together at dinner, laughing at inside jokes that no one else understands. There’s a sacred ease in those moments. The kind that reminds you: belonging isn’t earned. It’s remembered.

They say nostalgia is just longing for the past. But I think Christmas teaches us something different. It’s not that we’re chasing what’s gone. We’re honoring what remains. The love that outlasts distance. The joy that survives grief. The traditions that stitch generation to generation like golden thread.

Even when those we love are no longer beside us in body, they’re here—in the recipes we stir, the carols we hum, the silence we hold when a certain song plays. Christmas doesn’t erase loss. It makes room for it. And in that space, we find not sorrow alone, but gratitude for what was… and hope for what still is.

So tonight, as the snow keeps falling and the lights flicker like stars brought down to earth, I raise my glass—not just to celebration, but to reflection. To the quiet power of memory. To the courage it takes to stay open-hearted in a world that often feels cold. To the miracle of connection, of family chosen and born, of laughter that heals.

This is more than a season. It’s a state of soul.

A Christmas reflection isn’t just about looking back. It’s about remembering who we are.

And that—more than gifts, more than feasts, more than decorations—is the truest magic of all.

So let the carols play. Let the fire burn. Let the stories be told again, even if we’ve heard them a hundred times.

Because some stories aren’t meant to end.

They’re meant to be lived—again and again—each time we choose love, presence, and the gentle courage to believe in light… even in the longest night.

Merry Christmas.
And always—may your heart find its way home.