As the years seem to speed by and my own children grow up before my eyes, I find myself drifting back to the magic of Christmases long past. The traditions, the memories, and the moments that shaped my childhood still linger so clearly in my heart. Looking back now, I realize just how exhausting it must have been for my parents—but also how intentional. They gave us that idyllic, storybook Christmas, year after year, and I am endlessly thankful for it.

Christmas Eve always began with our Sunday School programs, nervously reading the parts we had carefully memorized. Then it was a mad dash home, hearts racing, to see if Santa had come yet. Soon after, we’d pile into the car and head north to Minnesota, crammed side by side—usually with my brothers, who made sure to annoy me the entire ride.I remember gazing out the window as we passed through Le Mars and Sioux Center, soaking in the quiet beauty of winter. Snow-covered fields, glowing lights, and that unmistakable feeling that Christmas was truly here. When we finally spotted the Minnesota state sign, the excitement grew. “Get your shoes on—let’s go!” someone would shout.

Adrian was our first stop, and chaos always followed. Our Christmas exchange game was ruthless—no mercy, no soft hearts. But my favorite part came later that night. Bundled up against the cold, we’d walk together by moonlight, the crunch of snow beneath our boots echoing in the stillness. Even now, I can hear it.

That walk to Midnight Mass remains etched in my soul. Under the winter sky, we made our way to hear the story of Jesus’ birth—simple, sacred, and grounding in all the right ways. Christmas Eve would quietly end as the children drifted off to sleep, though I’m certain my mom was already preparing for the next day.

Morning came quickly, and the excitement returned as we headed toward Wood Lake. I counted every landmark along the way, anticipation building with each mile.

Popcorn balls. Shaking presents. Recitations. Gift exchanges. Whist games played around the table. Laughter filling every room.

But the tradition that stands out most—the one forever etched in my heart—was Jesus’ Birthday Cake. We would gather around, sing Happy Birthday to our Savior and King, and take turns sharing our Christmas pieces. Then came family pictures, which, as a photographer now, feel even more meaningful in hindsight.

Those Christmases always felt like something out of a Terry Redlin painting—dreamlike and perfect. And the truth is, they really were.

I loved having our family together, celebrating the season, and remembering that Jesus is the true reason for Christmas. I am forever thankful for His love and His grace—and for the childhood memories that continue to shape who I am today.

Midnight Mass and Birthday Cake.