Hot Dogs and the Heart of Christmas

“Hot dogs.”
That was my answer this week when someone asked what reminds me most of the holidays.
“Hot dogs? Christmas?” they asked, surprised.
“Yeah, hot dogs.”

Growing up, every Christmas Eve at exactly 6 p.m., we crowded into my grandfather’s little ranch-style home. Papaw was a man of simple tastes and strong opinions.
He swore no one needed another plate of turkey, ham, or casserole. What we needed—what Christmas needed—was hot dogs. And you know what? He wasn’t wrong.

So, he served hot dogs with a crockpot full of sauce, alongside chips, dips, and a tableful of Christmas candy and finger foods. Because nothing says “unto us a child is born” like a crockpot full of wieners in mystery sauce.

We packed dozens of people into that house. I’d settle myself on the worn carpet next to the giant Santa Claus that smelled faintly of mothballs and old tinsel, staring at the mountain of presents heaped near their tiny tree.

This scene sums up the magic of Christmas for me: a warm home lit by familiar twinkles, a steady hum of laughter, and traditions that don’t have to make sense to anyone else. And yes, even the hot dogs.

But the very first Christmas looked a little different:

• A makeshift shelter instead of a cozy home,
• A place meant for animals, not people.
• No familiar treats, no glittering tree.
• No swarm of loving relatives—
  just a young couple and their newborn,
  wrapped in cloth and laid in a feeding trough.

Christmas stripped to its bones—

• no time-honored traditions,
• no cozy lights,
• no ninja turtles or talk boys wrapped under the tree.

Just two scared but faithful young parents,
a baby in a manger,
and a love that would change the world forever.

Growing up, I never questioned how the magic of Christmas happened. I trusted that the lights would come on, the gifts would appear, and the warmth of family would always be there.

But somewhere between childhood and adulthood, we realize that the magic wasn’t magic at all—it was a whole lot of work and a whole lot of love… along with more than a few rolls of scotch tape.

• It was my Papaw stirring sauce in the kitchen after working overtime to save a little extra for Christmas.
• It was my mom, wrapping gifts late into the night, having gone without so she could make the holidays special for us kids.
• It was my teacher who went out of their way to make the class Christmas party unforgettable.

None of it was perfect. None of it was easy. But all of it was magical.

As much as “commercial Christmas” gets a bad rap, it reflects something deeper—sacrificial love.

It’s the kind of love Mary and Joseph embodied that first Christmas. They didn’t have much to give, but they gave what they had:

• their care,
• their faithfulness,
• and their trust in God,
  even when everything felt uncertain and unfamiliar.

In their small, imperfect offering, God gave everything.

The holidays reflect this sacrificial love of Jesus. He didn’t come into a world that was neat or tidy. He came into a messy, broken world that desperately needed his good tidings of great hope.

His birth wasn’t marked by celebration or comfort, but by the faithfulness of two young parents doing their best.
And through them, Jesus became Emmanuel—God with us.

Now, as a parent, I feel the weight of creating Christmas for our boys. It feels different as an adult. There are empty chairs at the table and endless responsibilities piling up.

Some days, the magic feels just out of reach,
buried beneath to-do lists,
expectations,
and the quiet sadness of missing those who are no longer with us.

But then I see Christmas through their eyes—

• Isaac, cackling every morning at the mischief of his Elf on the Shelf.
• And Ian, eagerly pointing to every toy in the aisle to add to his Christmas list.

They don’t ask—

• how the lights get strung,
• how the stockings get filled,
• or why Dad is covered in glitter at midnight,

They just trust that it will all be there, waiting for them.

I watch my wife, Meg, working so hard to make Christmas happen for all of us. She searches for just the right gifts—not just for our boys but for the handful of people we love so dearly.

She stays up late wrapping, planning, and making sure every detail is just right. She doesn’t complain, even when it’s exhausting, because she’s doing what so many others have done before her and what so many have done for her—quietly creating joy out of love.

The kind of love that reminds me of my Papaw, my mom, and yes, even Mary and Joseph that first Christmas.

Because when I see the joy of Christmas flash across my children’s faces, I catch glimpses of something bigger. I catch a glimpse of Jesus.
And my prayer is that someday, they’ll look at the lights and the presents, the family, and the trees, and they’ll see Him too.

So, here’s to the hot dogs, the finger foods, the hard work, and the love.
They may look different for every family, but together, they remind us of the magic—and the Savior—at the heart of it all.