As the winter chill sets in, my son, Leo, has been captivated by dreams of foxes. He describes how the clever creatures keep vigil over him at night, and, in the morning, I can almost envision them—alert and graceful—trailing behind him into the kitchen. Standing there, barefoot and surrounded by his imaginary friends, he requests breakfast. After a long spell of restless nights, the arrival of these foxes has brought him tranquility, banishing nightmares.
This year, however, I found myself letting go of something significant: my belief in God.
With Christmas fast approaching, my partner, Tom, and I have begun discussing our holiday plans. Without the obligation of church services, we have space to fill, yet I struggle with the emptiness that lingers on our calendar. This marks my first Christmas as a non-believer, and I feel a profound sense of loss for the traditions I once cherished.
Throughout my life, Christmas was steeped in religious significance. I eagerly awaited the candlelight service on Christmas Eve, just as much as I looked forward to the presents the following morning. I would step into the warm glow of the church, nestled between my parents in our matching red sweaters, holding my candle steady as hot wax trickled down my fingers. As we sang, I envisioned our voices reaching the heavens.
I longed to pass on this experience to my children.
When Leo entered my life, I seized the opportunity. His nursery was filled with Bibles, devotionals, and other Christian texts, but when it came time for bedtime stories, those books remained untouched. I found no joy in them. Each time I tried to read, I skimmed and skipped, an unsettling feeling growing within me. One evening, as Leo sat on my lap with the Bible open before us, clarity struck—I adored my faith, yet I didn’t believe a single word.
Now, months after my shift in perspective, I often reflect on Christmas. Will my children find joy and wonder in the holiday, as I once did? Or will celebrating a secular Christmas feel hollow, akin to a trip to an amusement park—nostalgic yet devoid of true meaning?
The answer, I discovered, lies with the foxes.
This Christmas, our family will embark on a journey northward. In Minnesota’s Superior National Forest, a sanctuary exists for foxes. Tom will park the car outside the visitor center, and I will help our kids out of their seats. Together, we’ll rush inside, shedding our winter layers in the lobby, greeted by the scent of damp fabric and the sound of our boots on the floor. Leo’s eyes will sparkle with excitement.
I don’t need to teach my children about beauty; they see it vividly.
Meaning in Christmas doesn’t hinge on clinging to old traditions. As long as we are together, we will create our own significance.
We’ll gather in front of the large windows. I will remove my gloves, and Tom will take my hand. The kids will wiggle between us, sticky-fingered and eager, peering into the darkened exhibit for a glimpse of life.
Snowflakes will drift down, merging with the stars above us.
Summary
In this reflection on celebrating a secular Christmas for the first time, Jamie Collins shares her journey of letting go of religious traditions while seeking to create new, meaningful experiences for her family. As they plan a trip to see foxes in Minnesota, she realizes that true beauty and significance lie in the moments they share together, not in the customs of the past.