Dear Friends,
This year, there’s no white Christmas for me—just cactus, palm trees, and swimming pools glowing under the desert sky. I know, not exactly the sleigh-bells-and-snowdrifts image on most holiday cards, but I’ve learned that Christmas doesn’t depend on the weather outside. It’s what happens inside—our hearts, our homes, and our faith—that makes it glow.
Here in the Arizona desert, “home for the holidays” looks a little different. Our Christmas lights wind around saguaros instead of fir trees, and my favorite holiday tradition, Las Noches de las Luminarias at the Desert Botanical Gardens, has already filled me with awe and peace. Thousands of glowing lanterns line the paths, flickering like small miracles against the night. It’s a reminder that even in the darkest season, light always finds a way through.
Inside our home, I keep things simple:
Poinsettias. A real evergreen tree. Pine-scented candles. And the sweet aroma of bankette—a Dutch almond pastry my family has baked for generations—drifting from the kitchen. It’s not the grand gestures that make the season; it’s the small, steady rituals that bring comfort and continuity.
This year, I’ve made an intentional choice to slow down, unplug, and listen. The holidays can get loud—endless ads, social media scrolls, crowded stores, the pressure to do more, buy more, be more. But I’ve discovered that joy doesn’t live in the noise. It lives in stillness, in silence, in sacred spaces where we can breathe again.
For me, this season begins with Advent and carries through Epiphany—nearly six weeks of reconnection with God, my church community, family, and friends. I love lighting the candles on my personal Advent wreath each evening and letting that simple ritual anchor me to what matters most: hope, peace, joy, and love.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what joy means this Christmas. It isn’t glitter or grandeur. It’s the grace to say “no” to what drains us and “yes” to what restores us. It’s the laughter of family gathered around a meal, the warmth of a handwritten card, the holiness of quiet. Joy, for me, is the courage to unplug—to bake, to craft with friends, to walk outdoors, to go to mass, to watch old Christmas movies, to be fully present.
After such a full year of storytelling and travel, my husband and I are taking our usual two-week hibernation—no work, no meetings, no emails. Just rest, food, and, this year, a visit from our French family who will be joining us through the holidays! I can’t wait! It’s the only Christmas gift I truly want, and the one I never take for granted. Those slow days refill my creative well and remind me why I write: to explore what it means to be human, to search for light even when the path is shadowed.
So wherever you are this Christmas—whether you’re surrounded by snow or sand, family or solitude—I hope you find your own still point of peace. May you rediscover the wonder that first drew shepherds to a manger and keeps us returning, year after year, to this story of impossible hope.
Thank you, as always, for being part of my story. Your notes, your presence at events, your passion for mysteries— it’s the gift that keeps on giving and I’m more grateful than you know. You remind me that even in a world full of noise, there are readers and dreamers who still believe in the quiet power of story.
From our home in the desert to yours, may your Christmas be filled with simplicity, warmth, and grace.
With love and gratitude,
Jennifer Graeser Dornbush
