Now, the essence, the very spirit of Christmas is that we first

Host: The town square glowed beneath a veil of softly falling snow, the kind that quiets even the loudest streets. The old lampposts spilled gold light onto the cobblestones, and the faint tune of carolers echoed from a distance — a hymn of warmth in the cold. A tall Christmas tree stood at the center, its ornaments glimmering like fragments of memory.

The air smelled of pine, cinnamon, and the faintest hint of hope.

Jack stood beside the tree, his hands in his coat pockets, watching a group of children chase each other around the fountain, their laughter rising like bells. Jeeny approached from behind, carrying two cups of hot chocolate, the steam curling in ribbons through the winter air.

Jeeny: (softly, with a smile) “Stephen Leacock once said, ‘Now, the essence, the very spirit of Christmas is that we first make believe a thing is so, and lo, it presently turns out to be so.’”

Jack: (accepting the cup) “Ah, yes. The season of beautiful delusion.”

Host: His voice was half teasing, half tender — that tone only cynics use when they secretly want to believe. The snowflakes clung to his hair, melting slowly into the warmth of his skin.

Jeeny: “It’s not delusion. It’s faith disguised as pretending.”

Jack: “Same thing, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “No. Pretending is what we do when the world gets too heavy — until it remembers how to float again.”

Jack: “So Christmas is… make-believe therapy?”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Something like that. It’s the one time of year we all agree to believe in kindness, even if we have to fake it at first.”

Jack: “And you think that works?”

Jeeny: “Every year.”

Host: The lights on the tree shimmered — green, red, gold — their reflections dancing in the icy puddles at their feet. The carolers had drawn closer now, their voices threading through the night like silk: “Silent night, holy night…”

Jack stared into the glow of the tree, his breath visible in the cold.

Jack: “Leacock was right about one thing — Christmas only works because we agree to make it work. It’s collective imagination. A shared illusion that somehow creates real warmth.”

Jeeny: “That’s the miracle of it — believing as if is what turns faith into reality. Pretend generosity, pretend joy, pretend peace… until one day it’s not pretend anymore.”

Jack: “So we trick ourselves into goodness?”

Jeeny: “No. We remind ourselves it’s possible.”

Host: Her words lingered, soft as snowfall. Jack took a sip of his drink — it was too hot, but he didn’t mind. The warmth ran deeper than the cup.

Jack: “You know, I used to hate Christmas. The forced cheer, the expectations, the pretending.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think maybe the pretending is the point. The same way a kid pretends to be brave until he actually is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We fake peace until it feels real. We give gifts until generosity becomes habit. We tell stories of joy until they stop being stories.”

Jack: “So, in a way, humanity reverse-engineers grace.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s the most poetic way I’ve ever heard you describe shopping season.”

Host: A gust of wind blew through, scattering snow from the branches above them. For a moment, it looked like glitter falling from the stars.

Jack: “You ever wonder why Christmas feels sacred even for people who don’t believe in anything?”

Jeeny: “Because belief isn’t about religion — it’s about choosing wonder over reason for a little while.”

Jack: “And wonder is contagious.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s why we decorate everything — trees, streets, even our hearts. It’s not about light; it’s about reflection.”

Jack: “So we illuminate the world until we can see ourselves again.”

Jeeny: “Until we remember who we wanted to be when we were children.”

Host: The children near the fountain had begun to build a snowman — lopsided, imperfect, but full of joy. One of them placed a crooked hat on its head, and the group erupted in laughter, pure and unfiltered.

Jack watched them for a long moment, his expression softening.

Jack: “Leacock was clever, wasn’t he? The idea that pretending makes it so. That maybe hope isn’t found — it’s rehearsed.”

Jeeny: “He understood human nature. We dream things into existence. Every miracle starts as make-believe.”

Jack: “That’s what art is too — imagination convincing the world to catch up.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The painter pretends beauty exists. The poet pretends truth has music. The believer pretends love wins. And somehow, through all that pretending, it becomes real.”

Jack: “So Christmas is our rehearsal for faith.”

Jeeny: “Yes. A season-long experiment in goodness.”

Host: The bells from the nearby church began to ring — slow, resonant tones cutting through the cold. The crowd in the square paused for just a heartbeat, caught in the sound.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Leacock was really saying?”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “That Christmas isn’t magic — it’s participation. It’s what happens when we all agree, for just a moment, that joy is still possible.”

Jack: “And when we stop agreeing?”

Jeeny: “The magic sleeps. But it never dies.”

Jack: “You think we can live like that all year?”

Jeeny: “If we try hard enough to make believe, maybe we can.”

Host: Her eyes reflected the lights of the city — the golden shimmer of belief flickering in human form. Jack looked at her, then at the glowing square around them — strangers smiling, couples holding hands, laughter spilling into the night.

Maybe, he thought, make-believe wasn’t a lie. Maybe it was a blueprint.

Host: The camera pulled slowly back, showing the square from above — the tree, the lights, the people below. Each window, each street, each glimmer of movement was a small act of faith in motion.

And over it all, Stephen Leacock’s words drifted like a soft carol through the night:

“Now, the essence, the very spirit of Christmas is that we first make believe a thing is so, and lo, it presently turns out to be so.”

Host: Because maybe the heart of Christmas — and of life —
isn’t believing because we’ve seen,
but seeing because we’ve dared to believe.

The snow fell slower now, each flake a quiet yes from the heavens.

Fade to gold.
Fade to music.
Fade to peace.