This past Sunday, our church hosted its annual Ugly Christmas Sweater service. To say it was a spectacle would be an understatement. There was a Rasta tie-dyed Santa, Christmas cow sweaters, and what I’m pretty sure was a Dominic the Donkey shirt in the mix. One brave soul went full Grinch, complete with pointy green shoes. (Shout out to Pastor Stoney for that masterpiece!) As I sat there taking it all in, something stirred in my memory—those sweaters from my Nana.

Now, let me tell you about my Nana’s Christmas sweaters. They weren’t your run-of-the-mill ugly sweaters; they were next-level, handcrafted monstrosities. Think snowmen with googly eyes, Christmas trees stitched with real jingle bells, and reindeer that stared into your soul like they knew all your secrets. These colorful, itchy creations made us look like a Hallmark holiday special gone hilariously wrong. If Ralphie had been given the choice between his pink bunny onesie and one of Nana’s sweaters, he would’ve taken one look, grabbed his trusty Red Ryder BB gun, and shot out his other eye just to escape.

Nana didn’t stop at just one sweater per person, either. Oh no. She’d gift us three sweaters—each in different sizes. At the time, we assumed she just couldn’t remember our sizes. But looking back, I think she was playing the long game. “You’ll grow into it,” she’d say with a wink, like she was training us for some epic sweater marathon where we’d age gracefully into the wooly works of art.

Every Christmas morning, we’d sit around unwrapping these sweaters, already knowing what was inside but laughing anyway. Nana would perch in her rocking chair, beaming as we tried them on. “Don’t you look festive?” she’d say, while we nodded politely, itching to peel off the scratchy fabric. But here’s the thing—we secretly loved them. Not because they were stylish (they absolutely weren’t), but because they were her.

Nana’s sweaters weren’t just gifts; they were pieces of her heart. Every gaudy sequin and every oddly placed pom-pom reminded us that she cared. She thought of us. She wanted to give us something that screamed “you’re loved” in her own quirky way.

And as strange as it might sound, those sweaters remind me of the priestly garments described in Exodus—and the holiday traditions we carry on today. In Exodus, God commanded the Israelites to create robes for the priests, garments that were more than just clothing. They were rich in symbolism and meaning, stitched with care and intention. Each detail reminded the Israelites of their connection to God. Nana’s sweaters, in their own chaotic way, served a similar purpose: they made us feel seen, loved, and connected.

Nana’s sweaters—and the priestly robes—share a common thread (pun intended……..your welcome and yes that’s for you Stoner): intentionality. God didn’t tell the priests to throw on any old tunic before stepping into the Tabernacle. Their garments were meticulously designed, layer upon layer, reflecting their role as mediators between heaven and earth. Similarly, Nana didn’t just grab sweaters off a rack. She hunted for the quirkiest designs she could find, pouring her time and energy into choosing something uniquely “us.”

This intentionality carries over into how we prepare for Christmas. When we hang ornaments, bake cookies, or string lights, we’re doing more than decorating; we’re creating spaces of belonging. Every strand of tinsel, every flickering candle, every plate of sugar cookies says, “You matter. You belong here.” Just like Nana’s sweaters, it’s not about perfection—it’s about presence.

Let’s be real: Nana’s sweaters were far from perfect. The sleeves were too long, the patterns were loud enough to be seen from space, and the fabric was scratchy enough to rival sandpaper. But they were perfect in their imperfection. They reminded us that love doesn’t have to be polished to be meaningful.

The same is true for our holiday traditions. The Christmas tree might be lopsided, the sugar cookies might be slightly burnt, and the lights outside might flicker in a way that screams “call an electrician.” But none of that matters. What matters is the effort, the thought, and the love behind it all.

Nana’s sweaters taught me to embrace that imperfection. Today, as my family and I deck the halls, I don’t stress about making everything picture-perfect. Instead, I focus on creating moments that matter. Whether it’s hanging a crooked star on the tree or baking cookies with my kids (and letting them go wild with the sprinkles), it’s about the joy, the laughter, and the togetherness.

Thinking about those sweaters also makes me reflect on the sacredness of the spaces we create during the holidays. The Tabernacle in the Old Testament was a sensory masterpiece, designed to bridge the gap between heaven and earth. Every detail—the embroidered cherubs, the golden lampstand, the Showbread table—was intentional, inviting God’s presence and connecting the Israelites to something greater.

In a way, our homes during Christmas become modern-day Tabernacles. The twinkling lights remind us of the Star of Bethlehem, guiding the wise men to Christ. The greenery echoes the evergreen hope of the season. And the candles in the windows—rooted in Irish tradition—symbolize hospitality, declaring that there’s room in our hearts and homes for others.

These details aren’t just for show; they tell a story of invitation and belonging. Just as the Tabernacle was a place where God dwelled among His people, our holiday preparations create spaces where love, joy, and connection can thrive.

Of course, hospitality isn’t just about the physical space; it’s about the heart behind it. The priests in Exodus prepared themselves through ritual washing, ensuring they were ready to serve in God’s presence. Similarly, our holiday preparations—cleaning, decorating, baking—aren’t about achieving perfection. They’re acts of love, small ways of saying, “I’m ready to welcome you.”

This preparation extends beyond our homes. It’s about readying our hearts to embrace the season’s true meaning. Untangling Christmas lights might feel like a chore, but it’s also an opportunity to reflect on the Light of the World. Baking cookies might be messy, but it’s a chance to create something that brings joy to others. Every task, no matter how small, becomes an act of worship when done with love and intention.

One of the most striking elements of the Tabernacle was the Golden Lampstand, which symbolized God’s presence. At Christmas, we carry on this tradition with the glow of lights in our homes. Whether it’s a string of bulbs on the tree or a single candle in the window, these lights are more than decoration; they’re declarations of hope.

They remind us of the Light of the World, born in a humble stable in Bethlehem. They remind us that even in the darkest nights, there is a light that cannot be extinguished.

Now, as an adult, I find myself wishing I still had one of Nana’s sweaters. Not to wear (well, maybe for an ugly sweater party), but to hold onto as a tangible piece of her. Those sweaters weren’t just clothing; they were symbols of her love, her care, and her desire to make us feel special.

This holiday season, I’m inspired to carry on her legacy. Every ornament I hang, every dish I prepare, every strand of lights my son and I wrestle into place—it’s all about creating spaces where people feel loved and valued. It’s about saying, “You matter. You belong here.”

Because at the end of the day, Christmas isn’t about the decorations or the gifts. It’s about the thought, effort, and love that go into them. It’s about the hospitality that makes others feel seen, valued, and connected.

Nana’s sweaters weren’t pretty, but her love was. And that’s what I want to pass on to my family and everyone who steps into my home this season. Because love doesn’t have to fit perfectly; it just has to be present.

So as we string the lights, bake the cookies, and gather around the table, let’s remember the deeper meaning behind it all. Just as the Tabernacle pointed to God’s presence among His people, our holiday homes can point to the joy and light of Christ.

Let’s embrace the imperfect, the quirky, and the heartfelt. Let’s create spaces where love shines brightly, just like those sweaters from Nana.

And who knows? Maybe one day, my kids will look back on our Christmases and laugh about the traditions we’ve created—crooked stars, burnt cookies, and all.

Because at the heart of Christmas is this simple truth: love doesn’t have to be pretty to be meaningful. It just has to be present.