We just Got Started

I'm Not Done

On December 26th, I was making the usual post-holiday trips to the garbage can—armloads of wrapping paper, boxes that once held something magical and now held… air. Halfway down the alley, I noticed something that stopped me cold.

One of our neighbors had already thrown out their Christmas tree.

Not leaning against the can.

Not waiting patiently for pickup.

Just… done.

I shrugged and kept walking, but it stuck with me. That feeling—that Christmas was already over and out. Packed up. On to the next thing.

My brother Paul and I grew up in a house where Christmas never ended on the 25th. Not even close.

As we have said, our dad was a Methodist minister. Our mom worked nationally helping insure churches. If a church fire ever made the news, my mom noticed immediately. It was a big part of their world. But the most memorable “debate” in our house every year wasn’t theological—it was about the manger.

Specifically: Should all the "players" be there right away… or should they arrive over time?

My dad believed in the slow build. The spectacle. The long play.

The manger would start empty.

Joseph and Mary would arrive first, usually with a few animals.

Baby Jesus showed up on Christmas.

Then the shepherds—those guys moved. Tables. Bookcases. End tables. A real journey.

And finally, after twelve full days of traveling from surface to surface, the Magi would arrive with their gifts.

My mom hated this.

My dad loved it. Loved the drama. Loved the idea that something could unfold slowly and still matter. Paul and I? We didn’t care either way—as long as we didn’t have to pack it all back up.

That might be the real origin story of my inability to be “done” with Christmas.

In our house now, the tree stays up as long as it’s alive. And I’ll fully admit: we’ve dragged trees out so dry that they left a visible trail of needles from the living room, down the stairs, around the side of the house, through the yard, through the gate, and into the garage.

Still worth it.

I can’t be done with Christmas a day later. I started more than a month ago—there’s no way I’m wrapping it up in 24 hours. I love the lights. I can stare at them forever. And I’m not alone.

There are five or six houses on our block—since the pandemic—that never take their lights down. They go on every night. No apology. No explanation. And every time I walk or drive down our street in the evening, I feel it—that warm, quiet comfort that says, you’re home.

For my dad, Christmas carried deep religious meaning. For many people, it still does. But for me, the lights and the season aren’t about doctrine. They’re about memory. About moments. About creating something warm in a cold stretch of the year—and letting it linger.

So why throw it out on the 26th?

Someone told me just yesterday, “This weekend is the weekend. Tree goes out. Decorations get packed up.”

Heck no.

Let’s keep it going.

Not the shopping.

Not the chaos.

Not the pressure.

Just the feeling.

We spend so much time building the season, anticipating it, preparing for it… and then we rush it out the door like it overstayed its welcome.

I’m not ready.

Maybe you aren’t either.

So if your tree is still standing, your lights are still glowing, or your heart isn’t quite done with it yet—leave it be.

Some things are better when they linger.