Christmas Day is rarely cinematic.
It arrives with mis-timed ovens,
paper that won’t tear clean,
a blocked nose that flattens the wine,
and somebody a little brittle
before noon.
Not the shopping-centre snow,
not the sermon polished bright,
but the sink full of dishes
and the hands that wash them
without resentment.
A mug ring on the table—
a circle nobody photographs.
And still—this is the page
God chose to write on.
Toast buttered one-handed,
the other hand resting—quietly—
on the back of a chair,
as if to say,
I am here. I am not leaving.
Somewhere, a nurse hums Silent Night
off-key behind plastic curtains,
and heaven does not correct her—
heaven leans in.
Somewhere near a freeway in rain,
a man in three old coats
shares what he has
as if Bethlehem still fits
in a torn paper bag—
not grandeur, but chosen lowliness.
And in your cellar, under settled dust,
the bottles wait like stored futures—
but today you choose one
not because it is the best
but because it is ready.
The cork sighs
like a prayer finally allowed
to be ordinary.
You don’t need perfect company.
You pour for whoever is here—
the tired, the tender,
the ones you love
in the complicated way
real people love.
This is the duty:
to bless the hour you actually have.
And if the day collapses
or the family script tightens
or the old thunder returns—
you open a small door anyway.
Not outward.
Inward.
So let Christmas begin here:
in the dishes,
in the off-key hymn,
in the hand that steadies another hand—
in the imperfect day
received as enough—
knowing God’s great work
often looks like this.
