When Someone Believes in Your Magic
And reflects it back so brightly, you can’t help but become it.
I woke the next morning to the sound of the doorbell.
It was seven o’clock.
I looked at the time, smirked, and let out a sleepy laugh.
“My freaking Dad,” I said out loud.
I shuffled to the door, hair sticking up in all directions, the soft red creases of sleep still pressed into my cheeks.
There he was, standing on my front step like a kid about to go sledding, coffee in one hand, a French cruller from the bakery in the other.
“You ready to do this?” he asked, grinning.
The yard told the story of the day before.
The grass was gone, ripped up in patches, the soil patterned in parallel ridges from the manlift, as if someone had pressed the front lawn with a giant panini maker.
It was a mess.
A beautiful, necessary mess.
We worked faster that day, now that we knew the dance.
He’d take the machine up, I’d hand him the strands, we’d find their place, and little by little, the tree began to take shape.
Every so often we’d pause, squint at it from different angles, and try to imagine the way the lights would spill against the dark sky.
At one point, I spotted a bare patch, a stretch of emptiness where there should have been a strand of bulbs.
He moved the lift into place, but when he got there, he saw the problem: no branch.
Not a single one to hold the lights.
That’s when he went full MacGyver.
“Get me some tie wire, electrical tape, and wire cutters.” he said, then grinned.
A few minutes later he’d crafted a manmade branch, bent into the shape of a hook and hung from a limb ten feet above.
He looped the strand over it, folded the wire snug around it, and just like that, the gap disappeared.
I stepped back, saw the difference, and gave him a slow, satisfied thumbs-up.
We kept circling the tree, I kept spotting gaps, he kept good-naturedly fixing them, until finally we stood back, hands on hips, and I thought, Yes. This is it.
Around three o’clock, as we made another slow lap, I turned to him.
“Just one more thing,” I said.
He looked up at me, and without missing a beat, we both said:
“The star.”
I’d bought the biggest one I could find at Home Depot, two feet across, all bright edges and promise.
We sat for a while just talking about it, turning it over in our hands, figuring out how best to attach it so it would sit in the perfect spot and hold fast against whatever December winds might come.
Our plan was simple: a piece of PVC piping, zip-tied to the very top of the trunk, with the star zip-tied to the pipe.
I pulled out my regular-sized zip ties and handed them over.
He just laughed.
“These tiny things? Not a chance.”
Then he disappeared to his car and returned with a pack of massive zip ties.
“Where did you get those?” I asked.
“From my buddy in the police department,” he said. “These are what they use when they run out of actual handcuffs.”
I stared at him. “What a heartwarming addition to the Christmas tree.”
Up he went in the lift, higher and higher, until I had to crane my neck to see him.
I stayed on the ground, calling out small adjustments:
“Little higher!”
“No, just a touch to the left.”
“Okay, back a smidge.”
I half-expected him to finally snap and tell me to climb up there myself.
But he never did.
He just kept working, patient as ever, until I finally said, “That’s it.”
He made sure it was plugged in, then descended, boots crunching on the frosty grass.
When he reached me, I started to apologize for all my “a little highers and “just a smidge’s.
“You’re crazy,” he said, laughing.
Then, as if it were nothing, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two tiny pine cones.
“These were growing at the very top,” he said. “Tree looks healthy.”
I took them in my hands like they were something precious.
Brought them to my nose.
Inhaled.
Christmas.
Before my dad headed home for the night, the sun had almost disappeared, that quiet hour where the sky is deepening into indigo, and everything feels like it’s leaning toward night.
We stood by the tree, both of us knowing without saying a word.
It was time for a quick test.
“Let’s see what we’ve got,” he said.
I darted inside to find my wife.
I didn’t want her to just hear about it later, I wanted her here, in the moment.
She followed me out the door, in her pajamas, slippers brushing against the walkway.
I grabbed the extension cords and glanced down the street to make sure no cars were coming.
My dad leaned toward her and, with a sly smile, whispered,
“No free shows.”
She laughed as I bent down, fingers brushing cold plastic, and connected the cords.
And then...
Light.
For ten seconds, only ten, the world was different.
The tree bloomed in greens, reds, yellows, oranges, and blues, pouring color into the dusk.
My breath caught.
The star, once huge in my hands, now seemed almost shy up there.
The lights were brighter than I’d expected, and yet a small corner of my mind was already making notes: Next year, more lights. Bigger star.
But the rest of me was still.
My dad was looking straight up, the glow painting his face, pride and mischief mixing together in his smile.
“Looks great,” he said softly. “Can’t even tell that’s not a real branch.”
For a second, I didn’t see my dad the way I’d always seen him.
I saw a boy, standing in front of a Christmas tree for the first time, completely lost in it.
Then I looked at my wife.
Her expression shifted in real time, from I’ll love it because you built it to something far rarer.
Her eyes widened, her mouth opened just slightly, and all the weight of adulthood seemed to fall away.
“Wow,” she whispered.
And just like that, in the cold air of a November evening, we were all somewhere else, my dad, beaming like a kid; my wife, carried back to her own childhood; me, in the middle, holding both of them in this strange little bubble of light and memory.
Ten seconds.
That’s all it was.
And it was magic.
I spent most of the next day outside.
Checking wires.
Securing plugs.
Untangling cords I’d already untangled three times.
The lights were ready, but something in me wouldn’t settle.
Not until tonight.
Not until they all lit up and the neighborhood saw what we’d made.
It wasn’t about perfection.
It was about something else.
I didn’t have a name for it yet.
Only that it mattered.
The lights. The tree. The work.
It was doing something to me.
Something good.
By mid-afternoon, my breath came out in little clouds.
My fingertips were raw from zip ties and frozen pine needles.
A few cars slowed as they passed.
One man even rolled down his window to shout, “Can’t wait to see it tonight!”
I smiled and waved.
Muttered under my breath, “No free shows.”
And then thought, How did he even know I’m lighting it tonight?
By the time the sun began to tilt, I realized I hadn’t eaten.
I headed toward the house, trying to shake the cold from my legs, already picturing a mug of something hot before I went back outside.
But the second I opened the door, I froze.
The living room had been transformed.
A folding table stood by the window, draped in red flannel, lined with mismatched mugs.
Two crockpots, one steaming with hot chocolate, the other with cider, flanked bowls of mini marshmallows, cinnamon sticks, candy canes.
Sugar cookies, dusted with sparkle, sat neatly on trays.
In the center, a plate of slightly uneven brownies waited to be chosen.
Candles flickered along the mantel.
A soft hum of instrumental carols drifted from the speakers like a memory.
My wife looked up from arranging napkins in a wooden tray.
“Oh hey,” she said, as though she hadn’t just conjured a winter gathering out of nowhere.
I blinked. “What is all this?”
“You didn’t think we’d invite people over and not feed them, did you?”
“I… didn’t know we were inviting people over.”
She gave me that look, the one that says oh, you sweet, clueless man.
“Well, I might have… mentioned the tree to a few friends. And neighbors. And the moms group. And the kids’ friends’ parents.”
My jaw dropped.
“And maybe a few people from work. Oh, and I think someone posted about it on Facebook.”
“How many people are we talking about?”
She bit her lip. Shrugged. “A good number.”
I just stared at her.
And then I laughed, big, breathless, unstoppable.
Because she wasn’t nervous.
She was beaming.
She had bought in. Not just to the tree.
To me.
To this thing that had started as a wild idea and turned into something… real.
She crossed the room, took my frozen hands in hers, and said softly, “This is special. I was going to invite just a few people, but when I saw the tree lit up last night…” She paused, her eyes shining. “You made something truly special.”
Something swelled in my chest, gratitude, joy, and that quiet, humbling realization that when someone believes in your magic, it grows stronger.
By the time the sun dipped low enough to paint the rooftops gold, people had already begun to arrive.
At first, it was just the neighbors, my wife’s family, then mine.
A few close friends.
Then more.
Friends of friends.
Families we recognized from town events.
Even someone from the school waved as they passed and called out, “We heard this was the tree.”
They shuffled through the house, asking the questions I’d already started to expect:
“How’d you get the star up there?”
“How many lights does it have?”
My wife passed out mugs.
Kids darted between legs, laughing, their breath hanging in the cold.
Someone nudged the playlist a little louder, letting the music drift outside.
And for the first time in weeks, I stopped worrying about cords, symmetry, or wattage.
I just… watched.
Watched as something invisible seemed to weave these people together, a thread of anticipation running quietly from one to the next.
My dad stood off to the side, mug in hand, chatting with a man asking about the machine.
When our eyes met, he gave me a small nod that said everything: You did good, kid.
Then my wife appeared at my side, fingers curling gently around my arm.
“Alright,” she said. “I think it’s time.”
I let the words carry through the house: “It’s time to head outside for the lighting.”
People began to shuffle and gather their kids, drifting toward the front lawn the way snow gathers, a flake at a time.
I stepped forward and raised my voice just enough to carry.
“Hi, everyone,” I started, hands shoved awkwardly in my coat pockets. “Thanks for coming.”
They quieted, that kind of hush that always humbles me, when people decide to give you their ears.
“I don’t really have a speech prepared,” I said, pausing. “But I guess I just want to say… this tree, this whole thing, it wasn’t about making something flashy. I didn’t do it because we needed more decorations in the neighborhood.”
A ripple of light laughter.
“I did it because I think sometimes we forget how much it matters… to stop. To look. To feel wonder. Especially now, when everything moves so fast. When the world feels heavy. Or rushed. Or loud.”
Faces watched me, parents holding kids close, teens pretending not to listen but listening all the same, friends and strangers standing shoulder to shoulder.
“I wanted this tree to make you slow down, even for a second. To light up the street and make you feel… home. To remind you that this season is still full of something good. Something sacred. Something joyful.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“And maybe, selfishly, I needed to prove to myself that wonder isn’t just for kids. That it’s still in me, too. Somewhere.”
I looked at the small crowd of children near the front.
“Wanna help me count?”
They clapped and giggled, and in a heartbeat the whole crowd was counting with them.
Ten…
Hands found hands.
Laughter settled into smiles.
Nine…
Phones lifted, ready to capture.
Little ones bounced on tiptoes.
Eight…
My heart thudded in my chest.
Too fast.
Bigger than wires and bulbs.
Seven…
My wife slipped her hand into mine.
Six…
A breeze passed through, and the crowd drew closer together.
Five…
The tree stood above us, dark and tall, waiting.
Four…
I felt like I was six years old again.
Three…
Or maybe seventy.
Two…
The street fell silent.
One…
I hit the switch.
And the tree bloomed.
Light raced through the branches, every bulb sparking to life in a wash of color.
The star at the top, small, yes, but bright, glowed like it had been waiting years for this moment.
For a beat, no one spoke.
Then... cheers, applause, laughter.
A couple of gasps.
A child’s voice, high and clear:
“It’s beautiful!”
And it was.
Eventually, the crowd began to thin.
They left slowly, calling goodbyes, promising to come back, already asking if we’d do it again next year.
I was taking another bag of garbage out when I noticed my dad a few feet away, looking at the tree.
One hand in his coat pocket, the other around a cider cup gone cold.
I walked over.
We stood together without speaking.
After a moment, he said, “Looks good.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you,” I answered.
His gaze stayed on the tree.
“Ya know, your grandfather… he always tried to make Christmas as big as possible. Said this was the time of year people needed to slow down and remember what matters.”
I swallowed. “I didn’t know that.”
“He would have loved this,” my dad said quietly.
We stood in the kind of silence that says more than words.
Then, almost to himself, he added, “You did it.”
Later, as the last of the mugs had been rinsed and set on towels to dry.
My wife had gone upstairs.
The kids were asleep, the house was settling.
But I wasn’t ready to go in.
I stood at the edge of the lawn, hands in my pockets, breath clouding the air, watching the tree.
It glowed steady against the dark.
A soft lighthouse in a sea of winter.
A car drove by, slower than usual, and gave a quick honk.
Not the impatient kind.
The kind you give when something makes you smile.
I turned and waved, a little sheepishly.
In the back seat, a child’s face was pressed to the glass, eyes wide in the glow.
Their lips moved, and even without hearing, I knew.
Santa’s house.
Such a warm story. I could read it over & over. Everyone should sit down, take a breath & read this & feel your heart grow. 🎄🎄
💕