Every December, like clockwork, the world collectively decides to put on its best impression of a Hallmark village. The lights come out. The music plays. Someone burns the first batch of cookies and heroically pretends it was part of the plan. And for a brief moment, we all agree—usually without saying it out loud—that we’re going to try really, really hard to be better versions of ourselves.

And then someone steals a parking spot downtown and the entire experiment collapses.

Christmas has a way of exposing all of us. Not in the scandalous way, but in the deeply human way that reminds you just how fragile, funny, and fumbling the whole species is. The season arrives like an annual performance review for the soul, except instead of a manager you barely know delivering the verdict, it’s your own inner voice—usually whispering something like, “Maybe you should stop trying to buy joy at Target.”

The thing is, Christmas is less about the glittering extras and more about the quiet things we don’t post on Instagram:

The moment the house finally goes silent and you wonder—briefly—what all of this really means. The memory that sneaks in from a childhood Christmas, the one when everything felt enormous and magical and heartbreakingly simple. The realization that you’ve carried both wonder and weariness into adulthood, and they now sit together in the same living room without fighting. Usually.

It’s a strange holiday, isn’t it? Equal parts sacred and chaotic. Beautiful and a little ridiculous. A celebration of the God who stepped into the mess, wrapped in human flesh, surrounded by farm animals He created, while we celebrate that moment centuries later by…arguing about shipping delays and office-party dress codes.

Humanity is nothing if not consistent.

But maybe that’s exactly why Christmas matters.

Because the world wasn’t any less complicated on the night Jesus showed up. There was political tension, cultural division, travel frustrations (ask Mary about riding a donkey at nine months pregnant), and an entire empire that didn’t know what to do with itself. Into that setting—into the ordinary, inconvenient, deeply un-magical reality—came the Messiah. Not dressed in velvet. Not surrounded by perfectly tuned choirs. Just real life. Real need. Real hope.

And maybe that’s what draws me in every year—not the theatrics, not the forced cheer, but the subtle reminder that God steps into the mess long before He ever asks us to clean it up.

We chase perfection; He steps into imperfection.

We chase control; He enters through vulnerability.

We chase experiences; He offers presence.

That’s the quiet miracle hidden somewhere between the garland and the Amazon boxes. A God who didn’t wait for humanity to “get it together,” but instead walked straight into our beautiful wreck of a world and said, “I’m here.”

So this Christmas, if your house looks less like a magazine spread and more like a crime scene involving wrapping paper…

If your heart feels a little heavier than you expected…

If your plans didn’t go according to plan…

If the light strings won’t untangle and someone forgot where they hid the tree stand…

Just breathe.

The first Christmas wasn’t tidy either.

But it was holy.

And somehow, through all of our chaos and clumsy attempts at festivity, it still is.

Merry Christmas, friends. May your season be full of warmth, grace, and just enough snark to keep things interesting.