Thanksgiving weekend in our house isn’t just a time to polish off the turkey leftovers (though let’s not pretend those sandwiches aren’t a highlight). It’s the sacred kickoff to the Christmas season—a whirlwind of nostalgia, chaos, and enough twinkling lights to rival the Vegas Strip. It’s messy, it’s magical, and it’s hands-down one of my favorite family traditions.

The morning typically begins with our youngest, Nessah Lou, tearing through the house like a sugar-fueled elf, declaring it’s time to watch The Grinch. She’s relentless, folks—every single year, she crowns it the official Christmas movie. Alex tries to stage a rebellion with anything but the Grinch, Eliana campaigns for A Charlie Brown Christmas, and Hannah pushes hard for Elf. And me? Let’s be honest—my vote’s always for Die Hard. Because nothing screams “holiday spirit” like Hans Gruber taking a tumble off Nakatomi Plaza.

While the cinematic debate rages on, the rest of us start dragging out the Christmas bins. The living room quickly morphs into a glitter-coated battlefield: garlands everywhere, lights in knots that defy the laws of physics, and ornaments peeking out of tissue paper like old friends. The tree, our annual MVP, takes its rightful spot in the middle of it all—ready to wear its history on its branches.

Decorating the tree is less about aesthetics and more about storytelling. My wife carefully hands me a heavy ornament of Santa kneeling at the cross, reminiscing about our first Christmas as newlyweds. The kids giggle as they uncover a comically large reindeer gifted by my in-laws, and somewhere in the chaos, a few relics from our childhoods make their way onto the branches. Every ornament holds a memory, and as they go up, so do the stories—woven together like the lights we struggle to untangle every year.

Meanwhile, the kitchen becomes ground zero for our holiday baking adventures—or, more accurately, misadventures. Someone inevitably forgets an ingredient (how do you miss the flour in cookies?), frosting ends up in places it has no business being, and we spend as much time laughing as we do baking. We debate who gets the cookies this year—teachers, neighbors, friends—and I make my usual case for scaling back because, let’s face it, I will eat half the batch if they stick around too long.

Amid the fun, there’s always a twinge of homesickness. My wife and I share how much we miss our families—siblings, parents, nieces, and nephews. It’s bittersweet, this time of year. But there’s gratitude, too, for the traditions we’ve built here with our little crew.

One of my favorite traditions is placing candles in the windows, a nod to my Irish heritage. It’s a simple gesture—a symbol of welcome, a beacon for the weary traveler, much like Mary and Joseph seeking shelter that first Christmas night. Watching my kids light those candles (battery-powered, because, you know, safety) is a quiet moment that feels sacred. It’s a reminder of what this season is really about—hope, hospitality, and making room for others.

Outside, my son and I tackle the lights. Every year, we dream big—visions of Clark Griswold-level brilliance dancing in our heads. My wife, the voice of reason, tries to rein us in. “We don’t need to be seen from space,” she says, shaking her head as we push our luck. Still, we manage to string up enough lights to give the house a warm, welcoming glow.

Of course, no weekend like this is complete without a little drama. There’s always a spat—usually about me wanting to go overboard on something (guilty as charged). But we always find our way back to the bigger picture: the love and joy that make all this effort worth it.

By Sunday night, the transformation is complete. The house feels alive—not just with decorations, but with the heart behind every detail. As we sit together in the glow of the tree, with Nessah Lou inevitably asking to watch The Grinch again, I can’t help but feel a swell of gratitude.

This weekend isn’t just about getting the house ready for Christmas. It’s about preparing our hearts—making space for the season and the people it might bring. It’s messy, noisy, and far from perfect, but that’s what makes it beautiful.

Because in the end, the greatest gifts aren’t the ones under the tree—they’re the laughter, the memories, and the messy, magical chaos we get to share. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

The weeks leading up to Christmas can feel like a marathon—cleaning, decorating, baking, and arranging every last detail to make our homes holiday-ready. It’s enough to make anyone’s head spin. But what if, somewhere between untangling lights and scrubbing counters, we paused to consider why we’re doing it all? Turns out, the story of the tabernacle in Exodus might hold a little inspiration. Spoiler alert: it’s not just about perfecting the decor; it’s about preparing a space where love, connection, and care take center stage.

Here’s how lessons from the tabernacle can shape the way we prepare our homes—and our hearts—for the Christmas season.

The tabernacle wasn’t just a fancy tent; it was God’s way of saying, “I’m right here with you.” Portable, approachable, and smack-dab in the middle of the camp, it was a symbol of His presence among His people. Christmas is our chance to channel that same open-door spirit.

Let’s be real—your home doesn’t need to look like a spread from Better Homes & Gardens to feel welcoming. Whether the floors are gleaming or the laundry’s still lurking in a corner, the heart of hospitality isn’t about perfection; it’s about connection. When we invite others in, we mirror God’s presence in the tabernacle, reminding them, “You belong here.”

God’s instructions for the tabernacle were Pinterest-level specific—embroidered cherubs, golden lampstands, the works. But it wasn’t about showing off; it was about intentionality. Every detail was a reminder to the Israelites of just how much they mattered to Him.

In the same way, the little touches we add—twinkling lights, the smell of cinnamon, or a table set with care—say to our guests, “You’re worth this.” Maybe it’s making their favorite cookies or creating a cozy spot to chat by the fire. These small gestures echo God’s love in ways that words often can’t.

The tabernacle wasn’t a solo project. It was a full-on community effort—everyone pitching in with what they had. Gold, silver, goat skins (hey, don’t knock it till you try it). Christmas prep doesn’t have to be a one-person show either.

Let the kids decorate cookies (even if half the frosting ends up on the dog). Ask friends to bring a dish to share. Rope your spouse into hanging lights or arranging chairs. Every contribution, big or small, adds to the celebration and strengthens the bonds between us.

The tabernacle was designed to guide worshippers closer to God, step by step. Our Christmas prep can do the same—create an atmosphere that draws people in. Twinkling lights, a crackling fire, the scent of baking cookies—these aren’t just festive extras. They’re cues that say, “Relax. You’re home here.”

Whether it’s a loud, laughter-filled feast or a quiet moment around the tree, the environment we create helps usher in the kind of connection that makes the season unforgettable.

In the tabernacle, every item had meaning. The lampstand, the Showbread table—none of it was random. It reminded the Israelites of God’s provision and presence. Likewise, the things we put out at Christmas—the stockings, nativity sets, or even that scrappy, handmade ornament from kindergarten—tell a story.

Decorate with purpose. Let the nativity remind you of the gift of Christ. Let the ornaments carry the weight of family history. These little touches turn our homes into places where love and memory live side by side.

Here’s the thing about the tabernacle: it wasn’t grand because of its size or extravagance. Its sacredness came from God’s presence. And that’s the heart of Christmas, too. It’s not about throwing the fanciest party or finding the perfect gift. It’s about the moments that bring us closer—shared laughter, heartfelt conversations, or simply sitting together in the glow of the tree.

Even when things go sideways (and let’s face it, something always does), grace carries the day. Maybe the cookies burn, or the cat knocks over the tree—lean into forgiveness, humor, and the beauty of imperfection. After all, hospitality isn’t about nailing it; it’s about showing love.

The Israelites brought their best to God in the form of burnt offerings, creating a “pleasing aroma” of devotion. In our own way, every act of preparation—sweeping the floors, stringing up garlands, baking that third batch of cookies—can be an offering of love.

As we ready our homes, we’re also readying our hearts—welcoming not just our guests, but the Christ child who’s at the center of it all. The lights remind us of the Light of the World, the meals we share echo His provision, and the gifts we give point to the ultimate gift of salvation.

This Christmas, let’s take a cue from the tabernacle. Open your doors wide, set the table with care, and create a space where love can thrive. It’s not about getting everything right—it’s about making room for the sacred moments that remind us why we celebrate in the first place.

Because at the heart of it all is Emmanuel—God with us. And that’s the kind of hospitality worth sharing. And to that I say Yippy Ki Yay…………Merry Christmas!