Christmas Eve, As I Learned It

Christmas Eve, the way I learned it, was never about abundance.

It was about family and gratitude.

Oklahoma was shaped by people who learned, the hard way, that nothing is guaranteed. The Dust Bowl taught them how quickly the ground can turn against you. The war years that followed taught them how to make do, how to stretch, how to be grateful without performing gratitude.

They learned to save string.

They learned to wash and reuse foil.

They learned that a single orange with some hard candy in a brown paper bag could feel extravagant if it arrived with intention.

This kind of gratitude was not sentimental. It was disciplined. You appreciated what you had because you remembered what it took to keep it. God was constant. After giving thanks, you focused on what was yours to tend. Envy and jealousy had no utility, only weight.

I still carry that with me.

I am grateful for what I have, not because it is plentiful, but because it is real. I am grateful for steadiness. For shelter. For food that fills rather than impresses. For another morning that will arrive without asking for permission.

This is the inheritance I claim tonight.

Not excess, but appreciation.

Not spectacle, but presence.

If this year gave you less than you hoped for, you are still allowed to be grateful. If it gave you just enough, that is a quiet kind of wealth.

Wishing you a memorable Christmas Eve, rooted, warm, and honest about what truly matters.