December 23 — When the Doors Finally Close

By December 23, retail workers are running on fumes and muscle memory.

The music has been looping since November. The same five songs. Over and over. The lights are too bright, the lines are too long, and everyone is suddenly shocked that Christmas arrives on the same date every year. Again.

Today feels like the exhale before the final sprint.

I am tired in the very specific way only retail creates. My feet hurt, my patience is on life support, and my brain keeps replaying transaction numbers like they are Scripture references. I am grateful the worst of the hustle is behind us, but I also know tomorrow will still ask something from me.

I am heading to work on Christmas Eve.

And in the middle of that exhaustion, something quietly shifts.

When the noise dies down, when the last frantic purchase is made, when the doors start thinking about closing, we are left with the question we often outrun all season:

What was this actually about?

Not the sales.

Not the lists.

Not the pressure to create a picture-perfect moment.

This season was never meant to leave us hollow and overstimulated. It was meant to land us somewhere deeper. Somewhere softer. Somewhere honest.

The countdown is almost finished now. Not just the shopping countdown, but the waiting. The long ache of humanity that kept asking if God would come close or stay distant. If He would fix things from far away or step right into the mess with us.

And He chose the mess.

Not a palace.

Not a polished entrance.

Not a day when everyone was ready.

God came quietly. Vulnerably. Tired parents. A borrowed space. A world too busy to notice.

That matters to someone who is bone-weary and still showing up for a shift.

Because it tells me God does not require energy I do not have. He does not wait for my life to slow down before He enters it. He does not need a perfectly curated moment to be present.

Tomorrow, while I scan items and wish people a polite version of peace on earth, the real miracle will already be true.

God is with us.

Not just in candlelight and carols, but in long lines, sore feet, and ordinary faithfulness. In showing up when we would rather collapse. In doing our work with as much grace as we can muster and trusting that God meets us there.

The countdown ends at a manger, not a finish line.

So tonight, I will rest as best I can. I will let the quiet settle where the chaos was. I will remember that Christmas is not something I have to produce — it is something I receive.

Tomorrow, I will go to work.

And somewhere between the beeping scanners and the final transactions, heaven will still be whispering the same truth it always has:

Unto you is born a Savior.

Even here.

Even tired.

Even now.