There was a time when Christmas in Vermont didn’t just sound like a small riot, it was a riot. Not a cute, hallmark kind of chaos. The kind of chaos that probably had an insurance policy rethinking its life choices.
Almost thirty of us crammed into my parents’ living room like the world’s most aggressive family reunion. If OSHA or the fire department had walked in, they wouldn’t have shut us down… they would have written a book about us and used it in training seminars.
My older brother would roll in with his wife and their seven kids,( two of them already married with their spouses) and the house would instantly lose all structural integrity. You could feel the temperature rise and the oxygen drop within seconds; what wasn’t hard because as my brother in-law would say she kept that house hot enough to breed sheep. You didn’t need a weather app, you just counted how many of his kids were screaming and guessed the humidity.
My older sister and her husband would show up with their three kids, bringing just enough calm to make things worse. They tried to act like the reasonable ones, which only made us brothers pick on her harder.
Then there was me, wife and three kids, full volume, no indoor voice, dragging bags of gifts like I’d looted a store.
My younger brother would show up with his wife and my niece…who now has two more boys added, matching my energy perfectly, which is a dangerous thing when you put us in the same room. Conversations stopped being conversations and started sounding like a fight scene from a low-budget comedy roast/action movie.
My younger sister would walk in with her two kids… three if you count her husband, and honestly, for legal reasons we should probably count him. At least that’s how the insults went.
We didn’t talk. We yelled with love. We insulted each other like it was an Olympic sport.
That kind of love confuses people who grew up in quiet families. If you walked into that room without context, you’d think we were about to throw hands, not throw casseroles.
My mother would stand in the kitchen, arms crossed, looking like she was one bad comment away from sanctifying us with holy oil. Her favorite line every single year?
“You all spent to much money and bought too many gifts!”
But the tone said something else: I’m glad you all are home.
My dad? He never said much in those moments. He would sit back in his chair like a king on a throne made of hand-me-downs and Walmart furniture, just soaking it all in. Quiet smile. Soft eyes. Watching kids trip over each other. Watching grown children turn back into the loud, feral versions of themselves.
And then came the holy moment. Every year. No matter how loud it got. No matter how crazy the kids got. No matter who was mid-argument over batteries or someone stealing someone else’s seat. My dad would grab my great-grandfather’s Bible. Not a replica. Not a display piece.
The real one.
The one that had been read from in North Carolina at my great-grandmother’s Christmas Eve parties. The same pages turned by hands that are in heaven now. Same worn leather. Same soft, fragile pages that sounded like whispers when they moved. And we would all shut up. Not because he demanded it. But because it mattered.
He would read the Christmas story. Same words. Same rhythm. Same Spirit. And something holy would settle over the room like fog. Kids stopped running. Adults stopped shouting. Nobody mocked. Nobody interrupted.
That Bible carried history. It carried voices. It carried prayers that outlived the people who prayed them. That wasn’t religion. That was inheritance. That was home.
And when I think of Hosea 11:1, that’s what I hear. “When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son.” Not a polished choir. Not a spotlight.
A family.
A noise.
A mess.
A Father remembering the sound of His children in the house. That’s what God sounds like to me now. Not quiet. Not sterile. But warm. But loud. But alive.
Christmas wasn’t held together by perfection. It was held together by people. People who talked over each other. People who laughed too hard. People who loved without needing it to look pretty. That’s what I miss. That’s what we all miss when we talk about “home.” Not the decorations. Not the presents.
The noise.
The presence.
The chaos that felt safe.
That living room in Vermont didn’t just hold people, it held history. And nothing feels more like God than a house that’s on the verge of collapse but still full of love. That’s the sound I still hear when I read Hosea 11:1. “When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son.” That verse isn’t delicate. It’s God sitting in His living room talking to Himself like, “Man… I remember when they were little.”
That’s not theology. That’s a dad staring at an empty recliner. And the wild part? He didn’t just miss them. He called them back. That’s the Father-heart of God: He doesn’t sit around waiting for people to figure it out.
He dials.
He texts.
He leaves the porch light on and the door cracked.
Israel wasn’t just enslaved. They were homesick. They missed dirt that felt familiar. Wind that smelled right. A horizon that didn’t feel like a cage. And God didn’t say, “Toughen up.” He said, “Come home.” That’s Advent before Advent ever had candles.
Now fast forward to Joseph. The government drops a census and suddenly he’s got to walk back to Bethlehem. For Rome? It was paperwork. For Joseph? It was roots. Home.
And look, I know we make Christmas cards about “the long journey.” But let’s be honest, the man was probably thinking: “Why didn’t they send an email?” Pregnant fiancée. No donkey with seat warmers. No snacks. No Google Maps. But still… there had to be something in him that wanted the road.
Because Bethlehem wasn’t just a compliance form. It was identity. And in that road, you see longing again. The kind of longing my family lives inside. We’re in Georgia now, and we love it. But the holidays hit and suddenly my brain is in Vermont.
I can hear the boots hitting the old floors. I can smell the coffee that had been microwaved so many times it achieved legal adulthood. I can hear someone shouting from the kitchen, “Who touched the cookies??” And the crazy thing? The people back there miss us too. They’re not mad we’re gone. They’re just sad we’re not there. And honestly? That hurts in the cleanest possible way. They want us in that living room again. We want to be there too.
There’s no drama.
There’s no guilt.
Just longing. And longing isn’t weakness. Longing is proof of love.
Here’s where it flips on us spiritually. God didn’t just miss Israel. He went after them. That’s what we’re supposed to imitate. Not sit around with spiritual crossed arms like, “Well, if they really wanted to be here, they would come.” That’s not fatherhood. That’s petty. God didn’t whisper longing to Himself. He called.
Church, hear me: If God chased runaway slaves with fire and cloud, you can send a text. We don’t get to pretend we’re godly while we ghost people. If we claim the Father’s heart, then we act like Him. We make the call first. We open the door first. We say, “You’re wanted,” before they ever brace for rejection. And sometimes, let’s be honest, there’s no way to make it physical. Life is complicated. Money is real. Schedules are cruel little tyrants. You can’t always get everybody in the same room.
But you can still make people feel seen. You can still make people feel desired. You can still make people feel like their absence registered. And that’s hospitality. Not Martha Stewart hospitality. Real hospitality. The kind that doesn’t care if the couch is clean, it just wants the person on it. Even if they can’t come, they should know:
There’s a chair with their name on it.
There’s a plate we would’ve filled for them.
There’s a laugh we saved for them.
This is where churches need to repent, gently, lovingly, and with a little side-eye. We’re way too good at advertising events and terrible at calling sons home. You don’t need a better Christmas program…You need better phone etiquette. We get pumped about packed services and forget people who vanished quietly.
They didn’t rebel.
They just faded.
They didn’t hate God.
They just got tired….. And nobody called.
That’s not Advent, that’s abandonment dressed up in tinsel. The Father’s heart says: “I miss you.” “I noticed.” “I care.” Not because of what you bring. But because of who you are.
And here’s the funny part of all this deep theology: It doesn’t take much. It’s a phone call. A text. A private message. It’s awkward It’s imperfect. Sometimes it autocorrects to nonsense. But it lands. And people don’t forget being wanted.
So this season, don’t just decorate. Imitate. If God can call a nation out of Egypt, you can call your cousin. If God can part a sea, you can send a card. If God can put on flesh and show up, you can show up to Facebook Messenger instead of just stalking their posts.
Low bar. High impact.
And if you’re reading this and you’re the one far from home? You’re not forgotten. Someone should’ve called. But God already did. And He’s loud about it.
Out of Egypt.
Out of isolation.
Out of silence….Home.
So be like the Father. Not just missing people quietly. But calling them. Wanting them. Making space for them. Because nothing feels more like Christmas, than a house that gets louder when people walk back in the door. And if they can’t make it?
We still leave the light on.
We still save them a seat.
We still love them hard.
That’s hospitality.
That’s Advent.
That’s home.
Stay Salty.