A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory, like a

Host: The snow fell in thick, slow spirals, each flake catching the light of the streetlamps like a whisper made visible. The town was quiet, the kind of quiet that only arrives on Christmas Eve, when even the wind seems to pause to listen. The shop windows glowed in amber hues, the air smelled of pine, cinnamon, and memory.

Through the frosted window of a small café, two figures sat across from each other — Jack, coat unbuttoned, scarf draped carelessly, his eyes tired but sharp; and Jeeny, her hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate, her cheeks flushed, her expression soft, as if the season itself had found shelter in her heart.

A small radio on the counter murmured a line that made them both look up:
“A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together.” — Garrison Keillor.

Jack: “Compulsory. That’s one way to put it.” He smirks. “Forced cheer, crowded stores, fake snow, and songs on repeat. Yeah, a thunderstorm fits.”

Jeeny: “But even storms bring people closer, don’t they? Everyone rushing for shelter together. That’s what he meant — not the chaos, but the closeness.”

Host: The steam from their drinks rose slowly, curling between them like a delicate bridge. Outside, the snow piled up against the door, a soft barrier between the world and this moment.

Jack: “I don’t buy it. It’s a ritual — people pretending they care for one week a year. Then come January, it’s back to indifference.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that one week of pretending reminds them of what’s still possible. You call it fake; I call it rehearsal for kindness.”

Host: The lights flickered, reflected in the windowpane, the town square beyond shimmering with lanterns and strings of golden bulbs. Somewhere, faintly, a choir sang — not perfectly, but earnestly, their voices trembling in the cold air.

Jack: “You really think the season changes people?”

Jeeny: “I think it reminds them they can change. It’s like the earth itself forcing a pause — the way snow muffles everything. The noise, the rush. Suddenly, there’s silence. And in that silence, people listen again.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it.”

Jeeny: “You’re running from it.”

Host: Jack’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, the sarcasm drained from his face. The café lights softened, the radio crackled, and the snow outside thickened, blanketing the street in a kind of peace that felt both fragile and absolute.

Jack: “When I was a kid, Christmas was... different. My mother used to bake all night, humming off-key carols. My father would set out mismatched candles on the table. The house looked ridiculous — but it felt alive. Then one year, she got sick. And the next... we just stopped.”

Jeeny: “You stopped Christmas, or you stopped remembering it?”

Jack: “Does it matter?”

Jeeny: “It does. Because stopping Christmas isn’t about avoiding the holiday — it’s about avoiding the memories that made it matter.”

Host: The fireplace at the far end of the café crackled, casting a golden light across Jack’s face. His eyes softened, reflecting the flame, haunted yet tender.

Jack: “It hurts to remember joy when it’s gone.”

Jeeny: “Then that means it was real. The fake things don’t hurt when they fade.”

Jack: “You always have an answer, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Not answers. Just reminders.”

Host: The barista turned off the main lights, leaving only the tree in the corner, its ornaments shimmering, its soft hum of color painting the room in quiet nostalgia.

Jeeny: “That’s what I love about Christmas. You don’t get to choose it. It just comes. Like a thunderstorm. Whether you’re ready or not, it pulls you in — the noise, the light, the mess, the beauty. You can hate it all you want, but it still finds you.”

Jack: “And then?”

Jeeny: “Then it passes. And you realize you weren’t alone in it.”

Host: The clock ticked, slow and steady, its rhythm merging with the snow’s hush outside. Jack stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking like a metronome of memory.

Jack: “Together... You think that’s what it means? The thunderstorm part?”

Jeeny: “Yes. We all get soaked, Jack. But we laugh under the same storm. That’s the gift.”

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe holiness isn’t about angels or hymns. Maybe it’s about ordinary people stuck in the same snowstorm, offering each other warmth.”

Host: Jack smiled, faintly, the kind of smile that begins like resistance but ends as surrender.

Jack: “You’re impossible.”

Jeeny: “And yet you stayed.”

Host: The snow outside had stopped falling now. The streetlamps shimmered, the world hushed into a gentle pause — as if creation itself were holding its breath for the next heartbeat.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what makes Christmas work. Not belief. Not gifts. Just... inevitability. Like a season that knows us better than we know ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t have to love it. You just have to go through it. And somehow, in the middle of all that noise and exhaustion, you find beauty again.”

Jack: “Or maybe the beauty finds you.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “It always does.”

Host: The clock struck midnight, its chime warm, gentle, forgiving. The café door creaked, and a gust of cold air swept in, stirring the lights on the tree.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, watching the snow settle, the world remade in white — pure, temporary, and shared.

Outside, the church bells began to ring, echoing across the sleeping town, their sound soft but immense, weaving through every window, every heart, every home.

And in that sound — that great, inevitable, thunderous beauty — they both felt it:
the truth of the storm,
the grace of survival,
and the quiet miracle of going through it together.