19/12/2025
I remember when Christmas was simple.
Two hundred years ago, I’d visit every home, and every child would be waiting for the same thing—one small gift. Just one. That was all they hoped for. All they expected. And somehow… it was enough.
There was no rush back then. No noise chasing the silence away. No glowing screens. No buzzing pockets. No Switch… or Switch 2—whatever that is. Just families.
When the sun went down, the lights went out. Fireplaces flickered, shadows danced on the walls, and families gathered close. Mothers. Fathers. Sisters. Brothers. Voices mattered. Stories mattered. Silence mattered too. People sat. They talked. They listened.
I could feel it as I stood on rooftops—the warmth didn’t just come from the chimneys. It came from inside the homes.
Then time kept moving. It always does.
New things arrived. Slowly at first. A little more stuff. A little more distraction. Dances to attend. Plays to watch. Then movies. Wonderful things, really—but they began to take time. Time once spent sitting together. Talking together.
Less time by the fire. Less time for quiet.
And now… now I look down from the rooftops and I see it everywhere.
Three televisions glowing in a single home, each streaming something different. Food shows. Wrestling. Cartoons. Movies meant for grown-ups that shouldn’t be meant for anyone. And it’s not just on the walls anymore—it’s in their hands.
Little glowing rectangles. All day. All night.
Every child with a Switch in their hands. Augmented reality glasses on their faces. Whole worlds inside their heads. Who needs family, they think. I’ve got everything I need right here.
I sit here tonight, old bones creaking, sleigh heavy beside me. Heavier than it’s ever been. More toys than I can fit in my bag.
More wishes than I know how to grant.
And I wonder… when did Christmas become about carrying so much?
I don’t blame the children. Children only want what the world teaches them to want. I don’t even blame the parents—life is loud now. Busy. Exhausting. It pulls at them from every direction.
But oh, how I miss the quiet.
I miss when Christmas meant being together. When the greatest gift wasn’t wrapped in paper, but wrapped in time. When mothers and fathers were present. When brothers and sisters knew each other’s voices better than any character on a screen.
I sit here a little longer than I should.
The reindeer shift in the snow behind me, breath rising in soft clouds, waiting for the signal to go. My sleigh creaks under the weight of things—boxes and bows and batteries and screens. So much wanting. So much hoping that this will be the thing that finally fills the quiet.
But I know better.
I’ve been doing this a very long time.
I’ve watched toys break, and trends fade, and yesterday’s must-have end up forgotten in a closet. I’ve watched children grow up and barely remember what they begged me for… but they always remember who sat beside them. Who listened. Who stayed.
I wish I could leave something else behind tonight. Something lighter than all this stuff, but heavier in meaning. A pause. A moment. An invitation.
I wish parents knew how much their presence matters. Not perfection. Not having all the answers. Just being there. Sitting on the floor. Laughing at nothing. Listening to stories that don’t go anywhere. Holding a child who doesn’t know how to say what they need.
I wish children knew that the people in the next room are more interesting than anything on a screen. That one day, they’ll miss the sound of their mother’s voice calling them to dinner. Or the way their father sat in his chair, pretending not to fall asleep.
I wish families remembered that Christmas doesn’t arrive in my sleigh.
It arrives when the talking starts again.
When the fire is the only thing glowing.
When the noise fades and hearts lean closer.
So tonight, as I climb back into my seat and gather the reins, I make a quiet wish of my own. The gift Santa really wants.
That after the gifts are opened…
after the wrapping paper is cleared…
after the batteries run out…
They’ll find each other.
That they’ll turn toward one another instead of away.
That they’ll choose time over things.
That they’ll remember how to sit together again.
Because long after I’ve flown on,
long after the rooftops are quiet,
long after the toys are forgotten…
Family will still be the greatest gift of all.
And especially at Christmas… I hope they remember.
