Every year, it feels a little easier to get swept away by the noise : the sales, the scrolling, the Amazon toy catalog, the lists that never end. But I keep coming back to the same thought: I don’t want a Christmas that dazzles; I want one that lingers. I want the kind of Christmas that smells like cinnamon and woodsmoke, that hums with laughter in the kitchen, that reminds me that “enough” is a very beautiful word.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what an old-fashioned Christmas really means, not the cinematic kind with matching pajamas and perfect photos, but the kind the March sisters knew in Little Women. They had so little, and yet their Christmas morning felt full. Homemade gifts, shared breakfasts, quiet gratitude. That’s the kind of abundance that can’t be wrapped.

That’s the spirit I’m chasing this year.

Most of our friends will be getting simple things made with my hands: spice blends tucked into little jars, homemade potholders stitched with love (a bit messily), bottles of vanilla extract that have been quietly infusing for weeks. I’ve found such peace in the slowness of it. I’m craving the rhythm of stirring, labeling, and wrapping. The girls will help me mix herbs and measure sugar, and we will talk about who each gift is for: the friend who loves to bake bread, the cousins far away, the neighbor who shares his cucumbers in summer. Every gift feels like a small story.

We bought one big roll of brown paper, and the girls are decorating it with drawings and stamps, turning it into wrapping that’s more personal than anything store-bought (although I’ll mix in a few prints here and there). There’s a quiet joy in seeing their little hands at work: snowflakes, pine trees, stars, disney characters, and hearts, all drawn for the people they love. I hope they remember this: that giving can be art, too.

Our Christmas cards came early this year because I bought on sale and tucked away until December. I took the time to write a letter to go on the back. A real one, with thoughts gathered slowly over a maple latte. It felt good to pause and put the year into words, to name the things we’ve learned, the ways we’ve been blessed, and the places we’ve seen God’s hand in the small and ordinary.

The kitchen has been alive with baking cookies, loaves, and cinnamon roasted pecans. I’ve been buying ingredients little by little, spreading out the cost, just like Ma did in Little House in the Big Woods. I think often about that Christmas morning when Laura and Mary each received a shiny penny, a little cake, a stick of candy, and a new cup. The joy they felt over those few treasures says so much about gratitude and about finding wonder in simplicity.

We’ve been talking a lot about that, too. About what a humble Christmas means. About how frugality doesn’t have to feel like lack, but like peace: like clear eyes and full hearts.

And at night, when the house is quiet and the tree lights flicker soft in the dark, I hope we will think about another old-fashioned Christmas: the very first one. A bewildered young mother, the ache and exhaustion of birth still on her, cradling a baby in a manger. No wrappings, no ribbons, just straw and starlight. The greatest gift ever given, arriving in the humblest way.

It makes me want to keep our Christmas simple and sacred, too. To find beauty in the small, to make do gladly, to fill our days with warmth and giving and gratitude. Because the best parts of this season were never the grand ones anyway. They’ve always been found in small kitchens, in candlelight, in shared bread and homemade gifts, in stories read aloud from old library books, in the laughter of children and the quiet awe of remembering why we celebrate at all.

Not a step backward, but a returning. A return to presence, to love, to the wonder of that night long ago, when heaven’s greatest gift came to a world that didn’t even have room for Him and still, somehow, everything changed.

---

Bringing It All Home

Here’s what I’m doing this year to live it out in small, steady ways that make the season feel full but not frantic:

• Homemade wrapping paper: a single roll of brown paper, hand-decorated by the girls for each recipient.
• Intentional, thoughtful gifts: simple handmade things, spice blends, brownie mix in jars, jelly, cookie boxes, potholders, or vanilla extract, given with love and purpose.
• A letter: on the back each Christmas card, written slowly and sincerely.
• Slow budgeting: gathering ingredients and materials a little at a time so December doesn’t feel heavy.
• Family first: prioritizing unhurried evenings, baking days, and storytime over busy calendars. I have a dream of clumsy piano carols and singing together.
• Curating good books: thoughtful, heartwarming reads to share with the kids (list coming soon!).
• Freezer cookies: preparing dough now so we can bake fresh treats all season long without the rush.
• Giving: taking food to the food pantry near us, donating our surplus, choosing a family to buy gifts for off an angel tree and talking about how we have so so much.
• Advent at the center: finding small ways each day to bring it all back to the waiting and the wonder the reason we celebrate.

This is the Christmas I want to remember: slow, frugal, giving, full of meaning. The kind that smells like cloves and pine, that hums with hymns and laughter, that turns our hearts back toward the light that came to us long ago: quiet, holy, and enough.