Another holiday season is quietly approaching

On a gray October day, my thoughts begin to circle around Christmas—the planning, the timing, the invisible threads that stretch across continents. For me, starting early has always mattered. My family is scattered across our blue planet, and when distance is involved, nothing truly works last minute. Gifts, tickets, schedules—all need gentle attention long before December arrives.

Somewhere along the way, I made a different decision this year: to stay home. After months of travel, work commitments, and more journeys already ahead, the choice came easily. There was a calm relief in it. No rushing between terminals, no chasing timetables—just days unfolding at my own pace. Few appointments. Spacious mornings. A sense of simply being.

It feels like a beautiful way to close the year. Instead of joining millions hurrying through airports and train stations—rushing toward calm, racing to celebrate peace and light—I choose to remain still. To let the season arrive gently, rather than pursuing it.

My Christmas, like much of my life, is rooted in service. Over the years, it has become a tradition to host a Christmas Eve luncheon in my congregation. What began quietly has grown into something meaningful. Families come. Older couples arrive, feeling the weight of time and finding it harder to manage everything on their own. Single people from all corners of town gather, drawn by warmth and connection.

Yet the most rewarding part is not only who comes—but who stays to help. Familiar faces return, joined by new ones, eager to set tables, heat food, serve plates, clear dishes, and prepare the final sweetness of desserts—cakes, puddings, chocolates, fruit. There is something deeply moving in that shared rhythm of giving. Everyone who wishes to contribute is welcomed, each effort valued.

And in those moments—hands working side by side, laughter passing quietly across the room—the season reveals its truest meaning. Not in haste or perfection, but in presence, generosity, and the simple joy of doing something together.

A Quiet Truth of the Season

What I am slowly learning is this: peace is not something we arrive at after enough effort. It does not live at the end of a journey, a timetable, or a perfect holiday plan. Peace is created the moment we choose presence over pressure, connection over performance.

In staying home, I did not step away from the season—I stepped into it. Into slower mornings, shared tables, open hands, and willing hearts. Into the quiet miracle that happens when people come together not because they must, but because they want to serve something greater than themselves.

Perhaps this is what the season of light is truly asking of us—not to rush toward joy, but to make room for it. Not to chase calm, but to practice it. When we pause, when we serve, when we allow ourselves to simply be where we are, something sacred unfolds.

And so this Christmas, I am reminded that the greatest gifts are not wrapped or scheduled. They are found in kindness freely given, in hands working together, and in hearts that choose to stay open. This is where peace lives. This is where light begins.