Faith is salted and peppered through everything at Christmas. And

Host: The snow had been falling since early evening, slow and deliberate, as if the sky itself had decided to move in rhythm with memory. The world outside was hushed beneath a white quilt, every streetlight casting a halo through the storm. Inside a small living room, the fireplace glowed with a soft, steady warmth, throwing gold light across a worn sofa, a bowl of silver ornaments, and the faint sparkle of a half-decorated Christmas tree.

The radio hummed an old carol — faint, distant, the kind of melody that felt less like sound and more like prayer.
Jack sat cross-legged on the floor, tangled in a string of lights, muttering under his breath. Jeeny was beside him, carefully hanging an ornament — a little glass angel that caught every flicker of the firelight.

The night smelled of cinnamon and pine. The air carried that fragile kind of peace that only arrives when the world is cold enough to be still.

Jeeny: (gazing at the tree) “Amy Grant once said, ‘Faith is salted and peppered through everything at Christmas. And I love at least one night by the Christmas tree to sing and feel the quiet holiness of that time that's set apart to celebrate love, friendship, and God’s gift of the Christ child.’”

(She smiled, her voice low, reverent.) “You can almost hear the stillness in that, can’t you? The way she calls it ‘quiet holiness.’”

Jack: (without looking up, wrestling a stubborn wire) “Yeah, well, quiet holiness doesn’t untangle Christmas lights.”

Host: The fire crackled. One of the logs collapsed inward, sending a small cascade of sparks up the chimney — like stars fleeing gravity. Jeeny laughed softly, shaking her head.

Jeeny: “You can’t help yourself, can you? Always got to find the joke in the sacred.”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “It’s not the sacred I mind. It’s the expectation of it. The way people try to choreograph holiness — one tree, one night, one perfect feeling. Doesn’t work like that.”

Jeeny: (sitting back, thoughtful) “Maybe not. But maybe the point isn’t to make it perfect. Maybe it’s just to pause long enough to notice the light.”

Jack: “You mean the metaphorical kind? Because right now, I’d settle for the literal kind.”

Jeeny: (chuckling) “You’re impossible.”

Host: The radio shifted softly into another song — “O Holy Night” — slow, tender, unhurried. The melody filled the room like incense. Jeeny stopped moving, her eyes drifting toward the window, where the snow blurred the world into watercolor.

Something softened in her face — the laughter fading into quiet wonder.

Jeeny: (almost to herself) “It’s the only time of year I feel like faith has a scent. You know? The mix of pine, wax, warmth — it’s like the world remembers how to breathe gently again.”

Jack: (pausing, then quietly) “You talk like faith is a person you still trust.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I do. Maybe faith isn’t belief — maybe it’s belonging.”

Jack: “Belonging to what?”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “To love. To something bigger than fear. To that small space inside us that still wants to believe the world can be kind.”

Host: A faint silence followed — not empty, but rich, like the quiet between two verses of a hymn. Jack looked up from the lights. For the first time, his face wasn’t half-hidden behind irony. There was a flicker of something else — not faith exactly, but curiosity.

Jack: “I used to feel that. When I was a kid. My mom would keep the tree lights on all night. I’d lie on the couch and stare at them until I fell asleep. It felt like... being watched over. Not in a religious way. Just... safe.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “That’s faith, Jack. You just described it. The feeling of safety you can’t explain.”

Jack: “But it fades. You grow up. You realize safety’s an illusion.”

Jeeny: “And still, every year, you buy a tree. Why?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Because maybe... the illusion’s worth keeping alive.”

Host: The firelight deepened, glowing red against the ornaments. Outside, the snow kept falling, softening everything — the streets, the noise, the edges of memory. Jeeny stood and walked to the tree, gently plugging in the lights.

For a moment, the room transformed — warm, alive, bathed in gold. The shadows retreated, and the glass angel shone like a small miracle.

Jeeny: (softly) “See? There it is — the holiness Amy Grant was talking about. Not in the church, not in the sermon. Just... here.”

Jack: “You mean in the electricity bill?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “No, in the hum. In the way it makes you stop talking for half a second.”

Host: He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The glow from the tree reflected in his eyes, turning the gray to something softer, almost young. The song on the radio reached its chorus, and Jeeny began to hum along — quiet, tender, unpretentious.

Jack watched her for a moment, then picked up a small ornament — a painted wooden star — and hung it carefully on a low branch.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, I think the holiness you’re talking about... it’s not about God.”

Jeeny: (turning to him) “No?”

Jack: “No. It’s about gratitude. For the breath you still have, the people still around you, the warmth in the room. Maybe that’s what faith becomes when you stop pretending to understand it.”

Jeeny: “Gratitude is faith, Jack. The quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t need to be explained.”

Host: The radio faded into silence, leaving only the crackle of the fire and the soft tick of the old clock on the wall. The lights on the tree shimmered faintly, steady but alive. Jeeny sat back down beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

Outside, the snow had begun to pile along the windowsill — thick, white, holy.

Jack: “You think there’s any holiness left in the world?”

Jeeny: (after a long pause) “Yes. But it hides in small things now. The quiet. The forgiveness. The way people still hold doors open for strangers even when they’re late.”

Jack: “And in Christmas trees?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Especially in Christmas trees.”

Host: They both laughed softly — a shared warmth in the middle of winter’s hush. Jeeny reached for the mug of cocoa on the table and handed it to him. Jack took it, their fingers brushing — a tiny spark in the flickering glow.

Jeeny: “You know, Amy Grant said faith is ‘salted and peppered’ through everything. Maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s the flavor in ordinary life — the thing that makes it worth tasting.”

Jack: (quietly) “Then maybe tonight... I can taste it again.”

Host: The fire settled into a low, steady hum. The tree glowed brighter now, its reflection dancing softly in the windowpane, where the snow pressed gently against the glass.

They sat in silence — no grand gestures, no sermons, just two souls breathing in the stillness of a night set apart.

Outside, the wind carried the sound of distant bells, and the world — fragile, flawed, miraculous — felt, for one fleeting moment, at peace.

And in that small living room — lit by firelight, wrapped in the shimmer of faith salted through every breath — the holiness of Christmas didn’t arrive with thunder.

It simply stayed,
soft and unassuming,
like love choosing to remain.