Christmas is a bridge. We need bridges as the river of time flows

Host: The fireplace burned low and steady, a quiet pulse of orange light flickering through the living room. Outside, snow fell in soft spirals — slow, patient, unhurried — coating the small town in a kind of gentle forgiveness. The clock ticked with the rhythm of warmth. The room smelled faintly of pine, cinnamon, and old wood smoke — the scent of memory itself.

Jack sat by the window, a cup of mulled wine in his hands, watching the world blur into white. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the rug, untangling a string of lights, her fingers lit by their soft, blinking glow.

Host: It was the night before Christmas Eve — the quietest night of the year. That sacred pause before the world remembers itself again.

Jeeny: “Gladys Taber once wrote, ‘Christmas is a bridge. We need bridges as the river of time flows past. Today’s Christmas should mean creating happy hours for tomorrow and reliving those of yesterday.’”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “A bridge, huh? So we build joy to get across the years.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Christmas connects who we were, who we are, and who we’re still becoming.”

Jack: “Sounds poetic. But also exhausting.”

Jeeny: “Only if you think happiness is something you have to perform. It’s not. It’s something you remember how to feel.”

Host: The wind pushed softly against the windows, whispering secrets from the outside cold. A strand of tinsel shifted on the mantle, catching the firelight and scattering it like dusted stars.

Jack: “You really love this time of year, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I do. Not because of the presents or the lights. It’s because Christmas feels like forgiveness — like time itself slows down long enough for everyone to look back and say, ‘It was good to be alive, even for this.’”

Jack: “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. Not in the religious way — in the human way. Look around: everyone’s trying to hold onto something invisible — warmth, hope, belonging.”

Jack: “Or maybe they’re just trying to forget how fast everything’s moving.”

Jeeny: “That’s what bridges are for — to slow the crossing.”

Host: The firelight caught the curve of her face, and for a moment, she looked almost like a child again — filled with awe instead of analysis.

Jack: “You know, I used to love Christmas. When I was little, I’d stay up just to see the tree lights flicker in the dark. It felt like magic. Then I grew up and realized magic had to be plugged in.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you didn’t stop believing in Christmas. Maybe you just stopped building the bridge.”

Jack: “You mean nostalgia?”

Jeeny: “No. Continuity. The connection between who you were and who you’ve forgotten how to be.”

Host: A small silence followed — soft, weightless, threaded with the crackle of the fire.

Jack: “You think that’s what she meant? That every Christmas is a chance to rewrite memory?”

Jeeny: “Yes. To gather what time has scattered. To repair the parts of ourselves that the year has worn thin.”

Jack: “So the bridge isn’t made of gifts or garlands — it’s made of presence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Presence — the rarest gift of all.”

Host: Outside, the snow grew heavier, muffling even the smallest sounds. The world looked cleansed, like a page turned white for rewriting.

Jack: “Funny. The older I get, the quieter Christmas feels. Like it’s less about celebration and more about reflection.”

Jeeny: “That’s how it’s supposed to be. When you’re young, Christmas is excitement. When you’re older, it’s grace.”

Jack: “Grace. That’s a word you don’t hear much anymore.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because we stopped practicing it. But you can feel it on nights like this — when the world forgives you for rushing through it.”

Jack: “You sound like Taber herself.”

Jeeny: “She understood something simple: Christmas isn’t a holiday. It’s a bridge between hearts and years — between memory and hope.”

Host: The lights finally came untangled in her lap. She smiled — triumphant in the smallest way, the way people smile when they win back something ordinary.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s why the season feels bittersweet. Every bridge connects two sides — joy and loss.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We relive what we miss and create what we’ll someday miss again.”

Jack: “So the ache’s part of the beauty.”

Jeeny: “Always. The ache is proof the bridge matters.”

Host: She began looping the string of lights around a small pine bough, the bulbs blinking softly like little heartbeats.

Jack: “You ever wonder what people remember most? The gifts? The dinners?”

Jeeny: “No. They remember the feeling. The sound of laughter in a warm room. The glow of lights in the window. The way love looked on someone’s face when they weren’t pretending.”

Jack: “You think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s everything. The river keeps moving, Jack. But if you keep building bridges — small, bright, imperfect bridges — you’ll never drown in time.”

Host: He looked at her, then at the fire — the way the flames seemed to rise and rest, rise and rest, like breathing.

Jack: “You know... I think I finally get it. Christmas isn’t about chasing joy. It’s about remembering it. About leaving it behind like breadcrumbs for the next year to find.”

Jeeny: “That’s it. Every December’s a little act of remembering — and every light we hang is a promise to keep going.”

Host: The clock struck nine. The world outside was white now — every branch, every rooftop softened into peace.

Jeeny set the lights gently on the tree, and for a moment, both of them stood silent, watching the glow climb upward — from the roots to the crown.

Jack: “You know, for a bridge, it’s a fragile one.”

Jeeny: “All bridges are. But that’s what makes crossing them so human.”

Host: The fire popped once, like punctuation. The warmth of it filled the room completely — not as heat, but as memory reborn.

Jack: “You’re right. We need bridges — especially when the years feel like rivers.”

Jeeny: “And Christmas is the only one we keep rebuilding, no matter how broken we are.”

Host: They sat back down, the glow of the tree painting gold across their faces. Outside, the snow kept falling — soft, endless, forgiving.

Host: And in that small, perfect silence, the meaning of Gladys Taber’s words revealed itself — not as philosophy, but as feeling:

Host: that Christmas is not the destination, but the connection;
that each year is a river, and each memory, a plank we lay across it;
and that in building joy from yesterday, and hope for tomorrow,
we remember what bridges are truly for —

Host: to bring us home, again and again, no matter how far time has carried us.