There Is Still Light, Isn’t There?

There was a time when Christmas felt effortless. When its magic simply happened to us.

The lights seemed brighter. The songs felt happier. The season arrived without asking us to work for it. And somewhere along the way, between heartbreak, responsibility, loss, and a world that feels heavier every year, we started to feel the magic disappearing.

But it didn’t disappear. It just stopped announcing itself.

Growing up, I didn’t realize that the Christmas magic I was experiencing was all due to my mom. She did a wonderful job of creating family traditions, making our home feel warm and safe, full of love, and making the magic real.

I attempted to do the same with my children, and I hope I succeeded. But as they got older, it got more challenging. The kids weren't into it. In fact, most times when I would try to organize events, outings or activities, I was met with disdain and crappy attitudes. But that’s teenagers, right? And certainly once they moved out, the magic truly felt gone. It was hard for me to even find the energy to want to find the magic again. It truly felt as though it had disappeared.

But Christmas magic is never gone. It’s simply quieter now. Softer. More intentional. More informal. And if we want to feel it, we have to participate in it. 

I could write a ton about why I think the magic has changed, but in the hopes to keep it somewhat simple, I’ll just say that it feels different because we are different.

We live in a world where community has thinned. Where we know our neighbours’ opinions more than their names. Where belonging often feels conditional, and true inclusion - messy, imperfect, human inclusion - has been replaced with performative inclusion and careful distance.

Family looks different too. Not better or worse - just fractured in ways we’re still learning how to hold. Traditions that once anchored us feel optional now. Time together feels rushed. Sacred things are treated as interchangeable with convenience.

And for many of us, there is a quiet sadness in watching Christianity, or at least its values, once woven gently into the rhythm of the season, be reduced to something embarrassing, outdated, or even dangerous to name aloud. Not because everyone must believe the same thing, but because Christmas itself was born from a story about humility, love, and light entering a dark world. Similarly to Chanukah.

When we strip the season of its roots, it can start to feel hollow, like a beautifully wrapped box with nothing inside.

I don’t think this makes anyone bad or wrong. I think it makes us human, living in a time of enormous transition. But it does mean the magic doesn’t arrive in the same way it once did. It doesn’t sweep us up automatically. Now, it asks us to choose it.

I learned this a few years ago while visiting my mom just after Christmas. I was helping her take down her Christmas tree and made some offhand comment about how sad and frustrating it must be to decorate alone every year. She looked at me confused, and said, “I love it because decorating and having the tree up during the holidays makes me happy. It brings me joy.”

That moment rearranged something in me. What a concept - finding your own joy in things, rather than expecting it to be shared and when it’s not, allowing that to taint your joy. Seriously! Doing things for your own joy! How had I not thought of that? I’d been so wrapped up in the disappointing changes, the unmet expectations.

Joy, I realized, isn’t something we wait to be handed. It’s something we choose. Something we protect. Something we create, even when no one is watching.

Actually, especially then. 

This year, like many years lately, the world feels loud and fractured. We are tired. We are grieving things we don’t always have language for. There is fear everywhere, fear of the future, fear of loss, fear of each other. And in the middle of all that, Christmas arrives again, asking the same quiet question it always does: What will you do with this light? This joy?

It would be easy to say the world is too broken for twinkling lights. Too serious for singing carols. Too far gone for hope. But I don’t believe that. I believe Christmas is an act of defiance.

At its heart, Christmas began as a story about light, didn’t it? Not perfection. Not power. Not certainty.          Light.

The Christian story of Christmas wasn’t about triumph or dominance, it was about humility. About love entering the world quietly. About hope being born into uncertainty. About the belief that even in darkness, something good can arrive and change us.

For centuries, those ideas shaped the season, sometimes consciously, sometimes simply through tradition. Joy mattered. Generosity mattered. Community mattered. The vulnerable mattered. Love wasn’t earned; it was offered.

And even now, actually, especially now, those foundations still matter.

You don’t have to believe in Jesus, or God, or the divinity of the story to understand why it endured. You only have to recognize how deeply human it is to long for light when the world feels dark. To hope that goodness can still be born in dark places. To believe that love, freely given, has the power to soften what feels rigid, unyielding.

When those roots are stripped away entirely, Christmas can start to feel unmoored, reduced to obligation, consumption, or nostalgia for something we can’t quite name or grasp anymore. The season loses its depth, even if it keeps its decorations.

I don’t think that means we need to return to belief in the same way. But I do think it asks us to remember what the season was always pointing toward. 

Light. Joy. Peace. Hope. Love.

These are not outdated ideas. They are not owned by one faith. They are not weakened by doubt. They are human necessities. And maybe that’s why Christmas still calls to us, even when we’re unsure what we believe. It reminds us of who we want to be with one another. Of what kind of world we’re still hoping for. It is choosing warmth in what can seem a cold world. Softness in a hardened one. Generosity when scarcity feels safer. It is lighting a candle and refusing to let the darkness convince you it has already won.

Christmas magic lives in small, stubborn choices; setting the table beautifully when the house is quiet, feeding people well because love deserves to be felt, decorating simply because it brings you joy, speaking gently when everything urges you to be harsh, believing - still - that goodness matters.

Magic doesn’t shout anymore. It flickers.

And flickering light still counts as light. Doesn’t it?

So if this season feels different for you, you’re not broken. You’re just awake. You see the world as it really is now. And the miracle is that you’re still willing to love it.

This Christmas, don’t chase the version you remember. Create the one that’s possible. Be the kind of person who adds light to rooms. Protect your joy like it’s something sacred. Give generously, love fiercely, and decorate anyway. Because the magic was never lost. It’s waiting, quietly, for you to join it.

Ⓒ December 2025. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.