When I think about Christmas, I always think about Christmas lights.
Not the big productions we have now—the places you drive through with millions of lights, the laser shows, or the drone displays where Santa’s face appears in the sky. I mean the simple ones. The lights people hang quietly around the edges of their homes.
When I was a kid, my mom would take me to look at Christmas lights in our small town. We didn’t have much. She would bundle me up in a blanket and put me in the backseat of our old Thunderbird. The vinyl seats were cold. There were no seat belts. The heater barely worked, which is why the blanket was important.
We’d drive slowly through town after dark, passing the houses that had lights up. In my memory, those houses felt important somehow—like something good and warm lived there.
I especially loved the ones that moved. The “running lights,” where it looked like they were chasing each other along the roofline. I used to press my face against the window and follow them with my eyes, as if watching closely enough might help me catch whatever it was they were carrying.
At the time, I thought that was Christmas magic—something bright, something just out of reach.
Looking back now, I think I believed those lights meant something about the future. Maybe someday I’d live in a house like that. Or maybe someday life would feel settled and bright in that same way—warm, predictable, safe. I don’t remember wanting the decorations as much as I wanted whatever kind of life I imagined existed behind them.
We learn that instinct early—to chase brightness, to assume the good stuff is somewhere else, further down the road. And that instinct doesn’t really leave us as we get older. It just gets more complicated. We chase stability. We chase solutions. We chase the idea that if one thing were different—one policy, one coworker, one system—then everything might finally fall into place.
So much of life becomes about motion. About fixing. About getting to the next thing.
But every once in a while, something slows us down enough to help us notice what’s already there.
Years later, I keep up the Christmas lights tradition with my own kids. We pile into the car and drive around, though I’ll admit—it’s not quite the same experience I remember. Kids today have very high standards for entertainment. Sitting quietly and appreciating simple things isn’t exactly their favorite activity.
So I’ve adapted. Now we play Christmas Light Bingo. They look for inflatable Santas, reindeer, and snowmen. When they finish the card, we go get hot chocolate or candy—something that feels like a fair reward for their patience.
They don’t love it. They tolerate it.
But I love it.
Somewhere along the way, the meaning shifted for me. It stopped being about the lights themselves and became about the ritual of being together. Slowing down. Noticing beauty that’s right in front of us.
I don’t think my kids will remember every house we pass. But I hope they remember that we took the time. That we showed up. That there was a warmth to those nights that had nothing to do with how impressive the lights were.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned something else about those lights.
They don’t just appear.
Someone had to get them out of a box. Someone climbed a ladder. Someone stood in the cold longer than they wanted to, untangling a knot, replacing a bulb, fixing a strand that half-worked and half-didn’t.
Most people driving by never think about that part. They just see the glow. They feel the warmth. They move on.
And that’s not a bad thing. That’s how most acts of goodness work. They do their job quietly. They don’t ask to be noticed. They just show up and do what they’re meant to do.
There’s something about that kind of work—the kind that makes life a little better for someone else without needing credit—that feels especially important this time of year.
A few weeks ago at EOAC, we stepped away from our usual work and spent a day volunteering at other organizations in our community. The feedback afterward was incredible. People talked about how good it felt to help, how meaningful it was to show up somewhere new and make a difference. Several folks asked if we could do it again.
What struck me most was the joy in those reflections.
And then it hit me: the work that felt fulfilling to us that day—the work that made us feel useful and connected—is someone else’s everyday job.
For someone else, that volunteer site is their office. The food that needs sorting is the task they can’t seem to finish. The toys that need cleaning reflect a staffing shortage. Sorting trash is just part of their regular Tuesday.
They face the same frustrations we do. The same messiness. The same days when things don’t go according to plan.
And yet, stepping into that work—even briefly—reminded us why it matters.
Not because it’s easy. But because it’s kind and good.
I’ve been reminded of that truth in my own life recently.
My mom is getting older. She’s been dealing with some cognitive challenges and recently had to stop driving—something that’s been harder emotionally than practically. So now I help with doctor’s appointments, rides, and errands she’s always handled herself.
She hates it. She doesn’t want to be a burden, and she tells me that often.
Not long ago, she forgot to pay her light bill. I drove her to take care of it, and the entire way there she apologized. She told me how busy I am. How sorry she was. How many people she asked before she asked me.
And I remember thinking: this is the woman who raised me. Who drove me to school every day. Who took me to the ER when I broke my hand. Who made sure my homework was done. Who carried the weight of my life for eighteen years.
How does one errand even compare?
Yes, it was inconvenient. Yes, it was one more thing on a full day.
But what a blessing it is to be inconvenienced on behalf of someone who once did everything for you.
We often call things like that burdens. But maybe that’s not quite right. Maybe some burdens are actually gifts. Maybe the fact that something is hard doesn’t mean it’s the wrong thing—it means it matters.
That day, as we paid a light bill, I realized something: some of the heaviest things we carry are how the light stays on.
There’s one more Christmas memory I carry with me.
Every year growing up, my stocking had an orange in it. Every single year. And every single year, I ignored it. Compared to the candy, that orange didn’t stand a chance.
Years later, my mom told me that while my dad didn’t do much of the Christmas shopping, he always put the orange in my stocking. That part was his.
I didn’t learn that until after he was gone.
She also told me about his childhood—how his dad died when he was just a kid, how he went to work in junior high to help support his family, how Christmas usually meant one gift. One orange.
He never told me that story himself, but I don’t think he needed to.
That orange—the thing I didn’t want, the thing I barely noticed—was the light he knew how to give. Ordinary. Quiet. Consistent. Carrying more love than I could see at the time.
Some of the most meaningful things in our lives don’t announce themselves. They don’t sparkle. They don’t chase us down.
They just show up.
That’s what I hope for you—especially this year.
That you notice the light you already carry. Not the kind that dazzles or fixes everything, but the kind that shows up quietly, day after day, in small and ordinary ways. The kind that looks like patience, or showing up when you’re tired, or staying steady when things don’t go the way you hoped.
The world doesn’t change because people get everything right. It changes because people keep offering what they have anyway.
My hope this Christmas is simple: that you notice the orange in the stocking, that you trust the small things, and that you remember how much good already lives right here.
Thank you for the light you bring. From all of us at EOAC, we wish you a very Merry Christmas and a happy and hopeful New Year.