Christmas doesn’t start for me when December hits. It doesn’t begin with shopping or wrapping paper either. It starts the moment someone switches on the lights and the room changes.
That soft glow. That’s it.
I’ve always loved Christmas lights. It sounds ordinary, but it isn’t. Not for me.
They’re not just there to look nice. They carry memories. They settle me. They pull me back to a time when things felt simpler and more secure. When I think of Christmas, this is what I see first.
Boxes, wires, and the feeling of home
Anytime I pass a house covered in lights or see a tree glowing through a window, I’m right back in my childhood.
My Christmas memories live at night. Colored lights blinking in the dark. Old boxes dragged out from storage, covered in dust. Wires tangled beyond reason. And that familiar pause before plugging them in, hoping they still worked.
When they finally lit up, the room felt different. Softer. Calmer. Like we could all breathe a little easier.
My dad had a lot to do with that.
He was strict. There were rules, and we knew them well. But love didn’t always come in words in our house. He wasn’t demonstrative in affection. It came in consistency. In presence. In staying.
When my mother died, he didn’t retreat. He stepped forward. He took on everything that needed to be done. The caring. The worrying. The everyday things people usually expect from a mother. He didn’t announce it. He just did it.
Christmas was no exception. He made sure it felt steady. Safe. Ours.
Christmas, even when life shifted
Later on, my dad had a stroke. He suffered aphasia and lost his ability to be eloquent though he understood written words. The oral comprehension was gone, but his actions never were.
Every Christmas, he still showed up with gifts for my two girls and my son. He went out. He picked them himself. One time, he even bought a piano fir my girls to make sure they carry on the musical genes of their grandmother Sally. He made sure Christmas arrived, even when it took more effort, even when communication was slow and difficult.
He didn’t need words to explain anything. We understood.
To my kids, he was Santa Claus. To me, he still is.
Our forever Santa Claus.
Faith, music, and quiet moments
Christmas in our home was always deeply spiritual. That mattered to my dad. It wasn’t about decorations or noise. It was about faith. About gratitude. About remembering why the season mattered in the first place. We attended Simbang Gabi in the early mornings. Even when it meant waking up before sunrise, my dad made sure we went.
The lights were usually on while carols played in the background. Sometimes we sang along. Sometimes we didn’t. Some nights were lively. Others were quiet.
I remember sitting near the tree, watching the lights blink, doing absolutely nothing, and feeling completely at peace.
Only now do I realize how much thought my dad put into those moments. He wasn’t into big displays. He gave us routine. He gave us time. He gave us himself.
That was how he loved, even when life made it harder.
Why the lights still matter
Christmas feels different now. Life is louder. Busier. More complicated.
But the lights still work the same way on me. They slow everything down.
They remind me where I came from. Who raised me. They remind me that love can be firm and gentle at the same time. That showing up counts more than saying the right thing.
When I sit by the lights these days, I feel that same calm I felt as a child. That quiet reassurance that things will be okay.
So much has changed. This hasn’t.
As long as I remember what Christmas felt like, steady, grounded, full of love, then Christmas is still Christmas.
I miss you daddy old boy.
