At Christmas play and make good cheer, for Christmas comes but

Host: The streetlights of the old town glowed in a soft amber haze, their light reflecting off the wet cobblestones still glistening from the afternoon rain. It was Christmas Eve, and the air was thick with the scent of cinnamon, roasted chestnuts, and the faint tune of a street violin echoing from somewhere down the square.

Inside a small café — its windows fogged, its fireplace alive with crackling flame — Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other, cups of hot chocolate steaming between their hands. The decorations around them were simple but warm: pine branches, strings of golden lights, and a small nativity figurine perched quietly on the counter.

Jeeny watched the snow begin to fall, her eyes bright, while Jack stared out the window, expression unreadable, the faint reflection of Christmas lights flickering across his face.

Jeeny: “Thomas Tusser once wrote, ‘At Christmas play and make good cheer, for Christmas comes but once a year.’”

She smiled softly, fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “I think that’s the simplest and truest thing I’ve ever read.”

Jack: “Simple, yes,” he said, his voice low, roughened by years of habitual skepticism. “But true? Maybe once, Jeeny. Not now. Christmas used to be about joy; now it’s a shopping marathon wrapped in fake snow.”

Host: The fire popped, sending a small spark into the air, and the light caught on Jack’s grey eyes — sharp, reflective, almost haunted.

Jeeny: “You always say that — that everything’s lost its meaning. Maybe it’s not Christmas that changed, Jack. Maybe it’s us. Maybe we forgot how to feel joy without needing to justify it.”

Jack: “Joy doesn’t come on a schedule,” he replied, leaning back, his chair creaking. “It’s not something you manufacture once a year just because the calendar says so. This ‘good cheer’ Tusser talks about — it sounds nice, but it’s indulgence dressed as virtue.”

Jeeny: “Indulgence?” she laughed softly, shaking her head. “You make it sound like happiness is a crime. What’s wrong with a day of laughter, with letting the world be kind for once? Christmas may come only once a year — but maybe that’s why it matters so much.”

Host: Outside, the snow began to thicken, covering the street in a white hush, muffling the city’s hum into something almost holy. Inside, the fire’s warmth deepened, casting golden halos around the room.

Jack: “I just don’t see the point in pretending,” he muttered, gazing at the flames. “People drown in debt buying gifts they can’t afford for people they barely like. They smile for the photos, and when the lights come down, they go back to being miserable. You call that cheer?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not pretending,” she said gently, voice steady but filled with quiet conviction. “Maybe it’s surviving. Maybe that one day of cheer is all some people have to remind them they’re still human.”

Host: The words hung in the air, delicate as the flakes that tapped softly against the windowpane. Jack looked up, his expression flickering between resistance and reflection.

Jack: “You think celebration can save us? That a holiday can fix what’s wrong with people?”

Jeeny: “No,” she replied, meeting his eyes. “But it can heal, even for a moment. Do you remember the Christmas after your father died?”

Host: Jack’s hands froze around his cup, his eyes narrowing slightly, the firelight trembling on his face.

Jeeny: “You told me once you hadn’t laughed in months — and then your mother made you hang the lights. You slipped, nearly fell, and both of you laughed so hard you cried. That wasn’t pretend, Jack. That was life reminding you it still had warmth.”

Jack: “That was different.”

Jeeny: “No. That was Christmas.”

Host: The silence thickened, filled with the sound of crackling wood and the gentle hiss of melting snow against the window. Jack’s jaw tightened, but his eyes softened, as if the memory had unlocked something small — and fragile.

Jack: “You know, when Tusser wrote that line, he lived in the sixteenth century — when Christmas was a feast before the coldest months, a brief flame in the middle of winter. Maybe you’re right; maybe it wasn’t about excess. Maybe it was about… endurance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she nodded, smiling faintly. “They didn’t celebrate because life was easy — they celebrated because it was hard. It’s the same reason we light candles when it’s dark, not when it’s bright.”

Jack: “So you think cheer is rebellion?”

Jeeny: “In a way, yes. Every act of joy is defiance. Every laugh is resistance to despair. Isn’t that what makes it sacred?”

Host: A pause settled, and the fire’s glow seemed to pulse with their words, the flames dancing, casting shadows like whispered arguments on the walls.

Jack: “You always find holiness in the small things,” he murmured. “Snow, laughter, cheap wine… You make it sound divine.”

Jeeny: “It is divine,” she answered, her eyes shining. “When we play and make good cheer, we’re not mocking the sacred — we’re honoring it. Because joy, real joy, is gratitude made visible.”

Jack: “So even the drunk uncle singing off-key?”

Jeeny: “Especially him.”

Host: Jack laughed, the sound sudden, unexpected, and it filled the room like a warm breeze. Jeeny smiled, her shoulders relaxing, as if a weight had lifted.

Jack: “You win this one,” he said finally, grinning faintly. “Maybe Tusser was right. Maybe once a year is all we need — not because it’s enough, but because it reminds us how precious it is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why we play, and make good cheer — not to escape life, but to remember it’s worth living.”

Host: The snow fell harder now, soft, steady, covering the streets in a blanket of white. From the square, a small choir began to sing — their voices pure, carrying through the night air, mingling with the smell of woodsmoke and fresh bread.

Jack and Jeeny sat quietly, listening, the light from the fire flickering between them — gold and red, shadow and flame, memory and hope.

Jack: “You know,” he said softly, “for someone who doesn’t believe in miracles, you make them sound pretty real.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they are. They just don’t always look the way we expect.”

Host: The choir’s song rose, echoing through the street, and the clock struck midnight. The bells chimed, slow and gentle, their sound filling the café like a blessing.

Jack raised his cup, his eyes warm, tired, but bright.

Jack: “To good cheer, then. And to the one time a year we remember how to feel it.”

Jeeny: “To remembering,” she replied, lifting her cup.

Host: Their cups clinked, a soft sound, like the closing of a promise. Outside, the snow continued to fall, silencing the world, purifying it — if only for a night.

The fire burned steady, the choir’s song fading into quiet, and for that brief, fragile moment, the world itself seemed to believe again — that joy, like Christmas, need only come once a year, to make the darkness bearable.