Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, our house fills up with friends and family and somehow, everyone ends up in the kitchen.
Every seat at the island is taken. Someone is cooking. Someone is doing dishes. Someone is standing exactly where the person cooking needs to be. Someone is adjusting the temperature on the stove. (Looking at you, Grandma.) There’s usually a puzzle taking over the table in the breakfast nook, worked a few pieces at a time by whoever walks by.
Then there are the things you can count on every year.
Uncle Teddy will incomprehensibly remove each of his fingers, one at a time, only for all ten to somehow reappear. Aunt Connie will tell you a story you’ve heard 1,000 times, watching you with wide eyes as she approaches the ending before keeling over with laughter as if neither of you has ever heard it. Grandpa might fall asleep mid-conversation, only to wake up 20 minutes later and finish his thought like nothing happened.
It’s loud. It’s crowded. It’s messy. And you know what? One day, we’re going to miss it.
As adults, we spend a lot of time reminiscing about the “good old days.” Thanksgivings at Grandma’s house. Christmas mornings as kids. The people, stories, and traditions we didn’t realize were special until years later. But have you ever stopped and thought, these ARE the good old days?
We are creating the memories we’ll look back on years from now, right now. Ecclesiastes 3:12–13 reminds us to find joy in the life God has given us, calling it “the gift of God.” Maybe part of receiving that gift is recognizing it while we’re still living it.
One way we do that is through our holiday tablecloth. At every holiday dinner we host, everyone signs where they sat. Afterward, Afton stitches over each signature using a different color for each year.
It’s a tradition her mom started that we continued when we got married. Today, that tablecloth holds years of family history. We see our kids’ names from when they could barely write through the years their handwriting changed. We see grandparents no longer with us, family who traveled to be there, and friends who have moved away. It makes us wonder how many moments we’re living right now that won’t seem special until years from now.
Maybe the best way to make the most of the holidays isn’t to create more moments, but to be more present for the ones already happening.
So take the picture everyone complains about taking. Listen to the story you’ve already heard. Watch the disappearing fingers again. Let Grandpa finish his thought. Play the game. Work the puzzle. Put your phone down and look around the room because someday you’ll wish you could sit around this exact table with these exact people one more time.
Don’t wait until these become the good old days to realize how good they are.
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