What Is Christmas? A Writer’s Reflection

by Donald L. Reavis

What is Christmas? In the process of developing a novel, we often ask rhetorical
questions like this. Questions that linger in the air, shaping theme, tone, and character.
But this one isn’t only for fiction. It’s a question that pulls me backward through time,
into the places that formed me.

At its core, Christmas is a Christian holiday celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ. Over
centuries, it has become a cultural celebration rooted in family, generosity, and winter
traditions. Yet, for this author, to answer this question requires returning to my youth.

My earliest recollections of Christmas revolve around grandparents. At one house we
found toys and candy; at the other we received practical treasures, socks, pocketknives, and small items meant to last. At home, though we were dirt poor and my parents were raising five children on little more than determination and prayer, we always celebrated Christmas. Sometimes our gifts were singular, but were always given in love.

I remember one year, perhaps more vividly than any other. We had moved to Kansas in search of prosperity, only to discover the ruby slippers were nowhere to be found. On Christmas morning, the wind rattled the plastic that covered the windows. The oil stove
fought bravely to warm the room. And then Mom brought out the secondhand Samsonite
suitcase.

We gathered around it, sitting cross-legged on the floor, our backs warmed by the
stove, our faces lit by anticipation. Before the suitcase was opened, Dad read the true
Christmas story. The birth of Jesus in Bethlehem, the angels, the shepherds, the promise
of peace on earth. When he finished, he made sure we understood that story mattered
more than anything we were about to receive.

Only then did he lift the lid.

One by one, he handed us each a small wrapped gift. I no longer remember what my
siblings received. But I will never forget mine. A slinky. I had never owned one before;
my friends had them, but I had been deprived of the simple joy. No longer. I raced to the
rickety stairs leading to the second floor and, by the end of the day, I was a professional
slinky operator. That little coil of metal felt like magic.

Flash forward thirty years.

Christmas morning looked drastically different. An oversized, fragrant, but soon-to-
be-dying Christmas tree dominated the living room. Scores of gifts wrapped in bright
paper and pretty bows spilled out from under the tree. Stockings bulged with goodies.
Lights twinkled inside and out. It was abundance wrapped in beauty. And yet, I don’t
remember a single gift I received that year.

Another thirty years have come and gone. The decorations are still here, though the
lights didn’t make it up this time. An overdue book deadline kept them in their plastic
totes. The children who once turned the house into joyful chaos have grown up, moved
out, and created Christmas memories of their own. That’s what happens when you raise
them with wings. They fly, just as they should.

So Christmas.

What is it?

It’s that one time of year when time folds in on itself. The past meets the future.
Memory blends with reality, and our longings turn to gratitude. It is the season that
reminds us, writers especially, that stories matter. Just like the smallest gifts can be the
most unforgettable, the greatest scenes are not always the most extravagant ones. The
scenes that draw a person in, create inner reflection, brings hope, and ignites love will be
remembered long after the book has been returned to the shelf.

This Christmas, I pray that you will be blessed with memories of the past and hope
for the future as we continue to anticipate the day when we see our Savior face to face.

Donald L Reavis is a retired air traffic controller, whose love for backpacking inspired the Charlotte Lake series. He lives in Indiana, enjoys golf, painting, and experiencing new things with Sharla, his wife of 43 years. Visit his website at dlreavis.com.