I’ve always been one of those people who tucked every trace of Christmas away by Jan. 1. This year, however, on Jan. 24, my holiday decorations were still up. Life was refusing to cooperate with my plans, and interruptions were leading me down a new path.

Christmas 2025 began predictably enough. Our blended family settled into traditions that served us well, starting with a Christmas Eve gathering and a lasagna lunch. The meal went well, though I had to laugh when I learned my stepson and his family were heading to his girlfriend’s house afterward, where her family would be serving lasagna, too. With her Italian roots, I was fairly certain the other lasagna was the guest of honor. My only advantage was that our gathering came first — and everyone arrived hungry.

For Christmas Day, I continued my late mother’s tradition of a full feast for anyone who was free. My siblings and I planned our larger reunion for a day between Christmas and New Year’s, which I offered to host as well. That gathering was set for the Friday after Christmas, which worked perfectly for my son and his family of six, traveling from St. Paul.

Friday morning, my son called. One of the kids was sick, and they wouldn’t make it. I was disappointed but undeterred. We pivoted to New Year’s weekend. A few days later, another call came. Another family member was ill. We pushed the date to Jan. 10. I told my son I was keeping the tree up. He said I didn’t need to bother. But I wanted to give them a full-service Christmas. In my mind, that magic required a tree. So, for the first time ever, the artificial branches — sparkling ornaments and all — stayed put.

Then came the third call. Jan. 10 wouldn’t work after all. After comparing calendars, we staked a claim on the weekend of Jan. 24. The Wednesday before, I called my son: “Should I take the ham out of the freezer?”

Two days later, on the morning he was set to leave, he called again. He would be coming alone. Between recoveries and new symptoms, the rest of the family had to stay behind. I was heartbroken — but grateful he was still healthy and able to come.

My son arrived that Friday night. During the drive from the Twin Cities, his car struggled to warm up. In subzero temperatures, he didn’t think much of it — until he started feeling overheated. By the time he arrived, he realized the problem wasn’t the car. By Saturday morning, his COVID test was positive.

The ham went into the oven anyway, alongside the other fixings. I felt a pang of guilt. I knew he had come for me. Under any other circumstances, I would have told him to stay home. But this was our Christmas celebration. It only came once a year.

The gathering carried on — food, games, laughter. One by one, we made masked trips upstairs to visit our brother/uncle/son. My granddaughter took his room-service order; someone else delivered it. Each trek upstairs held tenderness and conversations that didn’t need a dining room table to matter.

After the meal, we packed his car with the unopened gifts for his family, and he headed home.

Even in the disappointments, we kept trying. That’s what we do when we love someone. And it was that love that helped us see joy.

A Christmas tree that worked overtime. Quiet thoughts with each upward step we took. Maybe the best memory of Christmas 2025 began and ended there.