There’s something about Christmas that touches a longing deep in within us. Every year, we wait for it—the flicker of candles, the scent of pine, the sound of laughter drifting through the house. For a few fleeting weeks, the world feels softer, more beautiful, more possible.
Maybe that’s why we love Hallmark movies so much. By the end, the problems are solved, the people find connection, and light breaks through the shadows. Along the way we glimpse nostalgic décor, cozy sweaters, and snowflakes that never seem to melt ... along with women who have perfect hairstyles that survive any weather condition and men who actually wear winter scarves. We watch as strangers become friends and hope is restored in some small-town main street where everything seems just right.
It isn’t our normal world, and that’s exactly why we’re drawn to it. Deep down, we all long for the same kind of redemption—to see the broken made whole, the lonely find belonging, and the weary find peace.
That longing is what Christmas is really about. It’s the story of Christ stepping into our darkness to bring light, to set right what has gone wrong, and to offer salvation to every heart that will receive it. The truest miracle of Christmas isn’t found in the perfect movie ending, but in the reality of God’s love coming near—in a manger, under starlight, in the most humble of places.
I think that’s why I find so much joy in creating a Christmas movie atmosphere at home. It’s my small way of reflecting that light and hope into my own space.
I get to visit Kansas City this November—the home of Hallmark—I can’t help but think about how this company has shaped how we feel about the season. And yet, for me, it all circles back to something much simpler: home, memory, and meaning.
My first Christmas on my own, in a tiny apartment as a single woman, I bought a stunning sleigh ride figurine. It sat on my table surrounded by twinkle lights, a reminder that beauty and hope could still exist in quiet and humble places, like a single gal's new apartment. Nearly thirty years later, that same figurine still comes out every December. And shockingly, I found the exact same piece at our local KARM thrift store just this season! I bought it for my daughter. I want her to have a bit of that same magic, that same reminder that joy can last through the years.
There are the ornaments too, the ones that have hung on our tree since “Baby’s First Christmas.” Some are handmade, some chipped, all loved. Each carries a story, a moment, a piece of our family’s journey. They are far from coordinated, but together, they are perfect.
Some people begin decorating the moment November arrives, others wait until after Thanksgiving. I tend to start when time and mood allow—placing greenery in mid-November, hanging lights on a warm weekend, adding touches of red as the days grow shorter. The tree often goes up before Thanksgiving, but we save the ornaments and finishing touches for afterward, turning that weekend into a cherished ritual of unboxing memories and stringing lights.
My home may never look like a curated aesthetic. It’s not the latest style or a picture-perfect Hallmark set. But in the soft glow of evening, surrounded by the treasures of Christmas past and the memories of those I love, it feels sacred.
So whether you live in an apartment, a cramped home, or a sprawling empty nest, you can still create that spark of Christmas magic within your own walls. No matter if your home glitters with gold or whispers with natural greens, let it reflect your story. The magic of Christmas isn’t in perfection, it's in honoring your stories and your loves, especially those with whom you celebrate.
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