Between the Manger and the Marketplace: Finding the Heart of Christmas Again
Every December, I feel it again—that quiet tension between what Christmas is meant to be and what it so easily becomes.
The lights go up. The music starts playing everywhere. Jesus’ name fills the airwaves, sometimes sung by voices that don’t even realize what they’re proclaiming. And part of me loves that. There is something deeply beautiful about a world, even briefly, pausing to sing about Emmanuel—God with us.
But another part of me feels the weight of it all.
Because somewhere between the manger and the marketplace, Christmas can slowly drift. What began with a baby laid in a feeding trough—humble, vulnerable, ordinary—can quietly turn into something loud and demanding. Full of expectations we never meant to place on ourselves or our children.
I didn’t grow up celebrating Christmas the way most people do. My dad wrestled deeply with it as a follower of Jesus. Because of his convictions, our family didn’t observe the holiday in the traditional sense. We still exchanged gifts—just on a different day—so that as kids we wouldn’t feel completely left out.
But what I remember most isn’t what we opened.
Every year, we gathered at my grandparents’ house for a big family dinner. The table was full. The rooms were loud. People lingered longer than usual. And that—more than anything—felt like the heart of the season to me.
Now, as a mom, I find myself carrying a different set of questions. Not should we celebrate Christmas—but how?
How do I teach my children to enjoy the beauty of the season without being swept up in the materialism of our culture? How do we give generously without unintentionally teaching entitlement? How do we create excitement around Christmas while still pointing their hearts toward Christ?
I have to stop and examine my own heart too.
Scripture gently warns us, “Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; life does not consist in an abundance of possessions” (Luke 12:15). That verse feels especially close to the surface this time of year.
Not long ago, I heard a pastor share a story that stayed with me long after the sermon ended.
He talked about growing up in a family that struggled financially. His children knew what it was like to go without—especially at Christmas. They made memories instead of lists. They created gifts. They learned to be content with little. His goal, like so many of ours, was that his children would one day be better off financially than he had been when he was first married.
That resonated deeply with me.
My parents struggled financially when I was growing up. My husband and I struggled too. And my prayer has always been that our children might learn from our mistakes and have a bit more margin than we did.
But as the pastor continued, the story took an unexpected turn.
Years later, they were grandparents—and finally doing well financially. His wife suggested that since they were never able to give many gifts before, they should go all out. Every item on the Christmas list. Nothing held back.
So they did.
And after all the gifts were opened, they realized one small thing had been missed. One forgotten item. Their youngest grandson was devastated. Upset not because of what he had received—but because of what he hadn’t.
The pastor said he left the room and went upstairs, overwhelmed with grief. In that moment, he realized something heartbreaking: more stuff did not mean his family was better off. Without meaning to, they were teaching entitlement.
So they changed.
They returned to the traditions they had when money was tight. Each year, they choose a family—or several families—who don’t have much during the holidays. They take their grandkids shopping to buy gifts for those families. Then they deliver them together.
He said the memories created through those moments far surpassed anything they could have placed under a tree.
That story exposed something I hadn’t fully named before.
Because my husband and I used to live that way too. When we had very little, we were intentional about blessing others. We took our kids to the store and let them pick out gifts for children whose families couldn’t afford much—while we ourselves were stretching every dollar.
Somewhere along the way, as life became fuller and finances less strained, that intentionality faded.
If I’m honest, much of it has to do with time. But I know—that isn’t really an excuse.
So this year, we’re choosing to do things a little differently. We aren’t spending extravagant amounts of money on our kids. Instead, we’re choosing to bless a few families in need right here in our town.
I don’t share this to pat ourselves on the back. We are not anything special, and there is so much more we could do. I share it simply as an invitation—to pause, to reflect, and maybe to consider one small way we might show the love of Jesus this season.
Gentle Ways to Live This Out This Season
If you’re feeling this same tension, here are a few simple, grace-filled ideas. Nothing fancy. Nothing perfect. Just small ways to gently turn our hearts outward:
Let your children help choose gifts for another child or family in need
Bake something simple—cookies, bread, or muffins—and deliver it with a handwritten note
Choose one toy (or book) each child gives away before Christmas morning
Volunteer together, even briefly, at a local organization
Read the Christmas story slowly over several evenings and talk about what stands out
And if you enjoy making things—or want to invite your kids into creating—homemade gifts can be a beautiful way to slow down and be intentional:
Sew simple scrunchies, zipper pouches, or bookmarks as small gifts
Make handmade ornaments using felt, fabric scraps, or even salt dough
Create recipe cards with a favorite family tradition written on the back
Assemble hot cocoa jars or tea bags tied with twine and a Scripture tag
Write letters or prayer cards for grandparents, neighbors, or friends
Often, the gifts made with our hands carry far more meaning than anything purchased in a store.
A Closing Prayer
Lord,
As we move closer to Christmas, help us slow our hearts.
Remind us why You sent your Son—humble, vulnerable, wrapped in flesh, laid in a manger.
Guard us from unintentionally teaching our children that abundance is found in things rather than in You.
Teach us to live with open hands, grateful hearts, and eyes that notice the needs of others.
Show us the small ways we can reflect Your love this season—
in our homes, in our neighborhoods, and in our conversations.
May our celebrations point back to You,
and may our lives quietly proclaim the hope You brought into the world.
Amen.
The Heart of Christmas
“For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.”
— John 3:16
And maybe this is what Christmas continues to invite us into—
not just remembering what we’ve been given,
but learning, again and again, how to give.
