When you grow up in the Gantt family, Christmas dinner isn’t a meal, it’s a military operation disguised as hospitality. And by “hospitality,” I mean the kind where the kitchen hits 96 degrees before noon, everyone’s yelling across the house about butter temperatures, and some poor soul is crying in the pantry because the rolls didn’t rise and now the entire legacy of the family name hangs in the balance.

This is the kind of meal that starts with a group chat in October and ends with the entire family in Vermont needing to repent of gluttony by December 26. If the angels in heaven keep records, there’s a whole chapter somewhere titled, “The Gantt Family: Lessons in Overdoing It.”

Most folks know I’m a chef.

What they don’t realize is that my whole family is basically the culinary equivalent of a biker gang. My younger brother Tim is a chef too, confident, probably knife-fighting a roast as we speak…. taught him everything he knows…. well some of what he knows. My baby sister? The master baker at the deli where I first learned how to not cut my fingers off. (A skill I still struggle with when I get excited.) Add a swarm of nieces and nephews who bake bread, decorate cakes, and create pastries like they’re auditioning for The Hunger Games: Buttercream Edition, and you start to understand the scale of what I’m working with.

So when we were all still living in Vermont together, Christmas dinner was… different.

I’m talking handmade rolls glazed so beautifully they could have been used as reflective beacons for stranded hikers. Some kind of roast so legendary we still bring it up years later like it was a spiritual encounter. And the sides, good grief, the sides, more dishes than any table had a right to hold. A sinful blend of butter, carbs, and ancestral pride. A feast of absolute edible excess. And yes, thank God for mercy. Because if gluttony had a leaderboard, my family at Christmas would be top five every single year.

But here’s the thing: Meals like that don’t just happen. Not with my crew. We prepared. We strategized. We curated and hunted and kneaded and argued and tasted and debated. We had planning meetings, for crying out loud. Who does meal planning like NFL coaches reviewing film? Us. We do.

Tim and I would handle the overly-inventive, unnecessarily-technical dishes that made the family  question our need for culinary drama. My sister and the younger crew would craft the bread and desserts so delicate I was afraid to breathe near them.

But you know what we never did?

We never once said, “Eh, let’s just slap it together the day before.” Because that would’ve been disrespect. Dishonor. Dishonor on you, dishonor on your cow…… never mind. It would be an insult to the family and the table.

And yet, that’s exactly how the Church handles Advent. We’ll plan Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, and even our dog’s groomer appointments months ahead… but the return of Jesus? The Second Coming? The wedding supper of the Lamb? We treat it like a casserole we forgot in the fridge until it grew legs and asked for a raise.

Most people think Advent is a countdown to Christmas: Four candles. A wreath. Some purple. Some pink. A devotional you printed from Pinterest because your pastor mentioned the word “anticipation” and you felt guilty or maybe you got my advent book “The Christmas table” because you wanted to know what kind of food we cooked along with some great lessons……… just saying.

But Advent, real Advent, is not a soft countdown. It is a leaning forward. A bracing. A call to preparation drenched in urgency. It says: “Yes, He came once. But He’s coming again. So get your house in order.” Advent is the subtle spiritual threat of heaven: “Straighten up. The King is on His way.” Not in fear, but in expectation.

Let’s talk about the elves.

I don’t care if it’s The Santa Clause, Elf, Polar Express, or any of the classics, every Christmas movie portrays Santa’s workshop as the most chaotic-yet-efficient sweatshop in the North Pole. Those pointy-shoed maniacs are working year-round. Twelve months of toy manufacturing. Twelve months of prepping for the same day every year. Twelve months of singing, hammering, wrapping, and questionable OSHA compliance. All of the elves understand that this work needs to be done… well all but the one that wants to be a dentist.

Those elves take Advent more seriously than the Church does. Why? Because they know their deadline. December 25. No surprises. No sudden calendar rearrangements. No “Elves, we’re bumping it up three days this year.” But for us? Jesus says: “You won’t know the day. You won’t know the hour. Just be ready.” Translation: “You don’t get a countdown, so don’t wait for one.” If the elves can prep all year for a morning of stockings and sugar cookies… why can’t we prep our whole lives for the return of the King?

Every December, humanity loses its collective mind. We prep the house like royalty is visiting. We clean places no human soul will ever look. We dust the top of the fridge, as if a guest might scale the counters like a raccoon. We shop like the world ends on the 26th.We drag out the “good plates”, the ones protected like museum artifacts because Aunt Linda broke one in 2012 and we’re still in therapy.

And we cook, oh, do we cook. We make nostalgic dishes soaked in butter, memory, and enough salt to preserve a mammoth. Dishes that remind us of home, heritage, childhood, Mama, Nana, and all the faces we miss at the table. All this work. All this effort. All this intentionality, for one day. For one celebration we can’t even see yet but fully believe is coming.

That’s Advent. That’s the point. Except our celebration isn’t one morning with presents under a tree. It’s the wedding supper of the Lamb. The great feast. The eternal table. The moment when every promise God ever made grows flesh and sits down beside us. Christmas morning is cute. The Second Coming is cosmic. But we treat the former with more preparation than the latter.

At Christmas, we send invitations, texts, cards, group chats, passive-aggressive reminders, whatever. But Heaven already sent its invitation. Jesus’ birth was the invitation. The manger was God’s engraved card: “You are invited to My table. Come hungry. Come needy. Come willing.”

His first coming opened the door. His second coming sets the table. Christmas is not the finish line. It’s the starting line. The birth of Jesus wasn’t God saying, “Look how cute My Son is.” It was God saying, “Get ready. The King is on His way back, and the feast is almost prepared.”

You know why we clean for company? Because presence matters. Because honor matters. Because love matters. When someone important is coming over, you make things ready. Not out of fear but out of respect. That’s Advent. Advent asks: “If Jesus showed up today, would your spiritual house look like you expected Him?” Not perfect, but prepared. Not spotless, but welcoming. Not flawless, but faithful.

Advent is the season where we wake up and say: “I need to get ready, not out of dread, but out of devotion.” The Church hasn’t just been saved. We’ve been invited.

Invitations come with responsibility:

• Prepare.

• Watch.

• Be ready.

• Live like the feast is real.

• Act like the Guest is on His way.

Because He is.

One day we’ll sit at a table not carved by human hands. A table where every tear dries.

A table where wounds lose their sting. A table where the Host Himself serves. A table where every story is healed. A table where our hunger finally ends. Christmas dinner, as glorious as the Gantt family made it, was only ever a shadow of that table.

Every year we:

• cook the roast

• set the table

• light the candles

• wrap the gifts

• sweep the floors

• simmer the sauces

• decorate the house

• stack the plates

• fill the home with hope

All these acts are rehearsals. Rehearsals for the feast that never ends. Rehearsals for the Kingdom. Rehearsals for the moment when the King says, “Welcome home.”

The elves prepare all year because they know their deadline. We prepare all life long because we don’t. But the Feast is coming. The King is coming. The table is nearly set. And Advent, real Advent, whispers: “Get ready.” Not with panic, but with purpose. Not with fear, but with anticipation. Not with dread, But with hope.

Because the One who came as a baby in Bethlehem is the same One coming back as King. And when He does, every preparation, every act of faithfulness, every moment of watching and waiting, will be worth it.

Until then, we prepare like my family prepared Christmas dinner: fully, fiercely, wholeheartedly, and with an unapologetic amount of butter. The feast is worth the wait. And the King is worth the preparation.

Stay Salty