Adults are tempted to produce and perform Christmas for their

Host: The night before Christmas wrapped the small town in a hushed, glowing silence. Snow fell slowly, blanketing rooftops, softening the edges of the world. Through a frosted window, a faint light flickered — warm, steady, golden. Inside, the living room was a battlefield of wrapping paper, ribbons, and half-assembled toys.

Jack sat on the floor, surrounded by open boxes and a pile of instructions. His grey eyes were ringed with fatigue, the kind that seeps in after too many late nights and silent compromises. Across from him, Jeeny was hanging the last ornament on the tree, her fingers trembling slightly as she adjusted the star on top.

Jeeny: “Ann Voskamp said something that’s been haunting me tonight — ‘Adults are tempted to produce and perform Christmas for their kids and their families, and they arrive at Christmas Day weary and disillusioned.’”

Jack: “Haunting, huh? Sounds more like accurate reporting. Look around — we’re living proof. We’ve turned Christmas into a job description.”

Host: The tree lights blinked faintly, casting patterns of blue and gold across their tired faces. Outside, the wind sighed against the windows, carrying the faint sound of a carol from a distant house.

Jeeny: “I think what she meant is that we’ve forgotten to receive Christmas. We try to perform it — to build this illusion of perfect joy — but in the process, we lose the real thing.”

Jack: “You mean the ‘real thing’ like peace, goodwill, and all that? Because I don’t see much peace in trying to make sure the roast doesn’t burn while the kids fight over batteries.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly it. We manufacture moments like factory workers — gifts, meals, smiles — and then wonder why they feel hollow. Christmas was supposed to be a pause, not a performance.”

Host: Jack exhaled, a low sound that was half laugh, half sigh. He rubbed his temples, his voice gravelly from exhaustion. The faint smell of pine and cinnamon filled the air, but beneath it lingered the scent of something heavier — weariness.

Jack: “You say that like it’s a choice. You think the kids care about the ‘pause’? They care about the wrapping paper and the noise. You stop performing, and you look like you don’t care. Try explaining minimalism to a five-year-old who wants fireworks.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t them — it’s us. We taught them that Christmas has to shine brighter every year, that love is measured in lights and ribbons. But it doesn’t have to be that way.”

Jack: “You can’t just strip it bare and call it sacred. The world doesn’t work like that anymore. Everything’s performance now — birthdays, weddings, even grief. Why should Christmas be any different?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s supposed to be different, Jack. It’s supposed to remind us that enough is enough. That we don’t have to earn joy.”

Host: Jeeny sat down beside him, the soft fabric of her dress whispering against the carpet. The tree lights flickered across her face, catching the quiet glow in her eyes — the look of someone both tired and faithful.

Jeeny: “When I was little, my mother would light a single candle on Christmas Eve. No feast, no music — just quiet. She’d say, ‘This is what light looks like when the world goes dark.’ And somehow, that felt more like Christmas than anything I’ve seen since.”

Jack: “You’re telling me one candle can replace all this?” He gestured at the room — the glittering chaos of holiday excess. “Come on, Jeeny. People need the spectacle. It’s the only way to feel something anymore.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we feel nothing because of the spectacle. You can’t find wonder under fluorescent light. You find it in stillness — in silence.”

Host: The fireplace crackled, throwing sparks that rose and vanished like brief, golden ghosts. The clock ticked past midnight. Outside, the world was wrapped in quiet — no footsteps, no traffic, just the soft sound of snow falling on snow.

Jack: “You ever notice how Christmas always ends in a mess? Torn paper, dead batteries, everyone half-asleep by noon. Maybe it’s not disillusionment — maybe it’s just the hangover of wanting too much.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the ache of having forgotten what we were looking for.”

Host: The words hung between them — fragile, luminous, true. Jack looked down at the half-built toy, its bright plastic parts scattered like broken promises.

Jack: “You really think there’s still something sacred left in it? After all the ads, the sales, the fake smiles?”

Jeeny: “I do. But it’s not in the things we buy — it’s in what we stop to notice. The warmth in a room. The breath between two words. The fact that we’re still here, together.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It is simple. We’re the ones who make it hard.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes softening, the lines of fatigue deep but beginning to ease. He looked at Jeeny — her face lit only by the faint glow of the tree — and for the first time that night, his voice carried a trace of something like peace.

Jack: “You know, I can’t remember the last time I just… sat. No noise. No lists. No pressure to make something perfect.”

Jeeny: “Then start now.”

Host: She reached over, took his hand, and squeezed it gently. The tree lights flickered once, then steadied — small, quiet points of gold against the stillness. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed softly, like a reminder from another time.

Jack: “You really think the kids will remember silence over Santa?”

Jeeny: “They’ll remember what it felt like — to see us calm, to see love without hurry. Children don’t remember presents, Jack. They remember presence.”

Host: Jack smiled, slow and tired, but real. The kind of smile that comes when the weight of pretending finally slips away. The fire crackled lower now, its light dancing across the room.

Jack: “You might be onto something, Jeeny. Maybe we’ve been trying to build Christmas like an architect — perfect, symmetrical, impressive — when it was meant to be like breath: invisible, quiet, alive.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We don’t need to produce it. We just have to let it happen.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, falling in slow, steady rhythms. The lights of the tree blurred softly through the window, their reflections glowing like distant stars.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The room was filled only with the quiet hum of warmth, the gentle whisper of falling snow, and the faint presence of something ancient — something still, and sacred.

Jack: “You know, maybe Ann Voskamp was right. We arrive at Christmas weary because we keep trying to build it — when all we ever needed was to be in it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To receive it, not perform it.”

Host: The firelight dimmed, but the room seemed brighter. The tree glowed softly, each tiny bulb like a heart at rest. Jeeny leaned her head against Jack’s shoulder, and for the first time that night, the silence didn’t feel empty — it felt whole.

Outside, the snow kept falling, slow and endless, covering the town in a quiet grace.

And in that stillness — no gifts, no noise, no glitter — Christmas finally arrived, unperformed and perfect.