My Christmas Always Came on Tiptoe

In every country, Christmas lives with its own heart.

You have the Yule Lads — thirteen mischievous figures with big noses and deep roots in ancient mountains. They sneak down one by one, hide in kitchens, and leave oranges in children’s shoes.

Grýla watches from the shadows.

And no one forgets the Christmas Cat.

This is your Christmas world — dark and bright at once, playful and a little dangerous.

But allow me to invite you into another world.

The world of my childhood, in the Czech Republic.

There is no Lad.

No troll mother.

No cat who eats those who forgot a new sweater.

Here, the Christ Child comes.

Quietly.

Without anyone seeing.

The children wait behind closed doors.

In the next room, the Christmas tree shines for the first time.

And then — a small bell rings.

The balcony door is ajar.

The Christ Child needs no key.

And suddenly, there are gifts beneath the tree.

No one entered.

But something happened.

This moment separates Christmas from all other days.

Not because of rewards.

Not because of good behavior.

But because of the miracle itself:

something arrives because we believe.

Because we hope.

Because we love.

We have our customs too.

We cut apples in half, searching for a star in the core — a sign of life and health.

We float walnut-shell boats in water, watching whether they stay together.

We pour molten lead into cold water and read the shapes.

No one knows what they truly mean — but we find meaning anyway.

We eat fish.

With potato salad.

And we always set one extra place at the table.

Not for someone we know —

but for someone who might come.

Or for someone who has nowhere else to go.

Our Christmas is quiet.

Gentle.

Full of vanilla, candlelight, and old songs playing from tiny radios.

It does not shout.

But it speaks straight to the heart.

Perhaps it is different from yours.

But beneath it all — the belief in warmth, in light within darkness, and that no one should be alone — remains the same.

So when I say the Christ Child comes to me every year,

I don’t mean faith.

I mean memory.

Heart.

Silence that smells of cinnamon and childhood.

And if you listen closely —

perhaps you will hear the little bell ring too.

 

Read also:

This story was originally written for Icelandic readers and published on mbl.is.
https://www.mbl.is/matur/frettir/2025/12/12/hvad_ef_jolin_vaeru_ekki_havaer_heldur_mild/

 

About the author

Kateřina Štěpánková is a Czech artist living in Iceland. Her work explores memory, quiet hope, and the fragile light we carry through dark seasons.