The holidays have always been the best time of the year in my family.

The season is rich with school concerts, Christmas shows, lights, decorations, and parties that make the holidays pass all too quickly.

With Christmas music abounding, you can always find a radio station that starts playing Christmas music in early November. While some say it is too much, I am never among them. I take all I can get.

I cannot point to a particular day or event that constitutes the highlight of Christmas. Every day in December is sheer magic.

When it comes to holiday prep, we begin some of the decorating in November.

The main reason goes back to the small village my Uncle Neldon had under his Christmas tree. My Dad’s family had their Christmas party every Christmas Eve and when it was Uncle Neldon’s turn, two things always stood out.

The first was the distinct clicking sound that my uncles’ shoes made when they walked across the hardwood floor in the kitchen and down the hardwood stairs to the basement.

The second was the Christmas village that sat cozily under the Christmas tree in the family room. I was fascinated by it as a child and decided I wanted one when I grew up.

And get one I did.

My wife and I started collecting on our second Christmas and now the “village” under our tree includes over thirty-five buildings, a pond, a mountain range, people, cars, and a forest of trees.

A couple of years ago, I mentioned to my wife that the growth of commercial enterprises had created a housing shortage that needed to be addressed.

She suggested that any future building we purchased should be a mortuary. I got the hint.

Our Christmas Eve family party was steeped in tradition.

It began in 1955 when Disneyland opened, Dwight Eisenhower was president, television was new, and the Dodgers were still in Brooklyn.

Smack dab in the middle of a great decade, war heroes had been home for ten years and were driving a bustling economy.

With each passing year, Christmas Eve opened a three-day holiday run. On Christmas Day, after opening gifts, we hit every house in the family, eating ourselves into oblivion along the way.

We finished off at Uncle Burnell’s at around 9:00 at night where we top offed the day with Aunt Linda’s carrot cake. Christmas culminated the next day in Tooele for Uncle Bert’s and Aunt Marie’s Boxing Day gathering.

We would pile into different cars with various cousins and begin the long-awaited journey to Tooele.

As we rounded the bend in the highway separating the south end of the Great Salt Lake and the north end of the Oquirrh Mountain range, our cars veered west toward what looked like the edge of the lake and then south where, at long last, we’d catch our first glimpse of the Tooele Valley.

The distant lights of Tooele and the snow-covered east mountains provided the perfect picturesque backdrop in the cold, December twilight. 

Twenty minutes later we would arrive at Uncle Bert and Aunt Marie’s snow-covered house, basking in the glow of multi-colored Christmas lights on the roof, the well-lit Christmas tree visible in the corner of the front window, and steam on every windowpane—proof that Aunt Marie’s kitchen was working at full power.

Uncle Bert always left the front door open so he could see us coming, and as we would bound up the sidewalk, there he was with the screen door open, his sturdy frame filling the doorway and his booming voice inviting us to “come on in!”

Once inside, uncles, aunts, and cousins packed the living room and television room to discuss the season amid the warm, soft glow of table lamps and the endless stream of nuts and M&M’s that filled the candy bowls strewn all over the house.

As part of the evening ritual, my cousins and I would casually saunter over to the dining room table in the small alcove to get a sneak peek at the evening’s meal.

Aunt Marie’s kitchen prowess was at its pinnacle on the day after Christmas, and we could never resist the temptation to steal a glance at the master in her own inner sanctum.

As we looked over the table, already full of everything imaginable, there stood Aunt Marie through the doorway into the kitchen where she was still busily cooking and sending more delicacies into the alcove.

We stood there gawking as if Aunt Marie were in the kitchen splitting an atom.

The sights, sounds, smells, and emotions of Uncle Bert and Aunt Marie’s house on the day after Christmas are as vivid today as they were then.

They knew how to create the joy of living, and I can still see the love and happiness in their twinkling eyes.

As Uncle Bert’s hearty laugh filled both the house and our hearts, we knew how important we were to him. His love of life and his methodical planning of traditions changed the lives of all of us.

To this day, when I think of those gatherings, my heart aches to be back there again.

Memories like those are the stuff life is made of. 

Amid all the parties and all the gifts, the best of Christmas comes from the birth of the Christ-child on a starry night long ago and the love that emanates from Him. Christmas is a season of hope, and that hope is a gift that can carry us through the year.

Despite all our comings and goings, the fact remains that we are here to become more like God and to help each other along the way.

The anonymous quote that reads “Me lift thee and thee lift me and we will ascend together” still rings loud and true. May we seek each day to emulate the kindness, patience, generosity, and love that so abounds each Christmas season. 

I am reminded of the Christmas classic, “It’s A Wonderful Life.” George Bailey, a young boy who dreams of adventure and success is thwarted at every turn in his efforts to achieve his dreams.

Just when he feels all is lost, a guardian angel comes to his rescue to show him how wonderful his life really is.

When George sees all of the good he has done and how his family and others have truly blessed his life, he comes to understand what really matters in life. 

As this year’s holiday season comes to a close, may we all seek to be the best versions of our selves and remember those things that matter most, the love of God and of family.

And may we all feel the sentiments felt by George Bailey when his brother toasted him with the story’s profound message of what really matters: “To my big brother George, the richest man in town.” 

Read more stories like this and learn valuable lessons from the book Fatherhood: The Role of a Lifetime. Available now on Amazon!