More Waste Than Wonder

Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year—or so they say. It’s the season of joy, giving, and...trampling over someone for a discounted air fryer. Let’s face it: somewhere between the Birth of Christ and the endless Black Friday deals, we’ve lost the plot.

Take a stroll through any mall in December, and you’ll see what I mean. Shopping carts overflowing, frantic parents searching for the "it" toy, and enough food in people’s trolleys to feed a small village for a month. All of it, of course, set to the soundtrack of “Jingle Bells” on repeat. And yet, half of that food will end up in the trash, the gifts forgotten in a corner, and the "joy" replaced by the inevitable post-Christmas exhaustion.

Here’s the thing that really gets me: we’ve replaced the most important figure of Christmas with a guy in a red suit. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done the whole Santa thing for my daughter. I’m not here to play the holier-than-thou card. But every time I see kids light up at the mention of Santa while knowing next to nothing about Christ, it eats at me.

Think about it: we spend weeks teaching kids about a magical man who rewards good behavior with presents. But Christ? He’s reduced to a brief mention in an old carol or a dusty Nativity scene that nobody really notices. The story of God humbling Himself to be born in a manger—a moment that changed the world—is overshadowed by the latest toy commercial.

And let’s talk about the checklist. Christmas today feels more like a marathon than a celebration. Did you get the tree? Check. The lights? Check. Enough food to feed an army? Check. The perfect Instagram-worthy family photo? Double check.

By the time Christmas Day rolls around, we’re so drained from all the prepping, buying, and partying that we barely have the energy to enjoy it.

it all feels so artificial. I’m tired of being a participant in this parade and charade. It’s like we’re all actors in a poorly written play, with lines dictated by marketers and directors who only care about their bottom line.

We’re living for snapshots, not moments. Think about it—how many people do you know who spend half of Christmas Day perfecting a photo for Instagram, only to feel empty once the likes roll in?

It’s no accident that Christmas has become this way. Consumerism didn’t just creep into the season; it kicked the door down and made itself at home. Stores start putting up decorations in October. Advertisements urge us to buy bigger, better, more—because nothing says "Merry Christmas" like maxing out your credit card.

And while we’re busy chasing the "perfect" Christmas, the essence of the season quietly slips away. Instead of reflecting on Christ’s birth, we’re too busy worrying if we bought the right color sweater for our aunts.

Look, I’m not here to ruin anyone’s Christmas spirit. I’m guilty of getting caught up in the fuss, too. But every year, I find myself wondering: what if we just...stopped? What if we said no to the chaos, the waste, and the endless checklists? What if we focused on what really matters?

The Birth of Christ is a reminder of humility, hope, and love. It’s about God coming into our broken world, not in wealth or glory, but in the simplicity of a manger. That’s what we should be teaching our kids—not that their worth is tied to how much Santa brings them.

Next year, I’m aiming to approach things differently. I'll still put up the tree and, sure, maybe sneak in a Santa gift for my daughter, but my focus will be on making sure she understands the true meaning of the season. I really want her to hear and feel the quiet wonder of that holy night.

And maybe—just maybe—I’ll spend less time worrying about the perfect roast and more time being present with the people I love. Because in the end, Christmas isn’t about what we buy, eat, or post on social media. It’s about something far greater—a gift that can’t be wrapped or wasted.

So here’s to a Christmas that means more, costs less, and brings us back to what really matters. And if you see me in the store with an overstuffed cart, feel free to remind me of my own words. I could probably use the nudge.