My son, Leo, has been enchanted by a pack of wolves. He tells me that they guard him as he sleeps. And sure enough, I can almost picture them, fierce and loyal, following him into the kitchen every morning. There he stands, barefoot among his imaginary companions, requesting breakfast. After many restless nights, he’s finally finding peace; since the wolves arrived, nightmares have vanished.
He found solace just as I was letting go of my own.
This year, I’ve stopped believing in a higher power.
As the temperatures drop and Christmas nears, my partner, Jake, and I discuss our holiday plans. With no church services on the agenda, we have some free time, but I’m struggling to fill the emptiness on our calendar. It’s my first Christmas as an atheist, and I feel a pang for the traditions I’m leaving behind.
For as long as I can remember, Christmas was steeped in religion. As a child, the candlelight service on Christmas Eve was as eagerly awaited as unwrapping gifts the next day. I loved stepping inside from the cold to stand between my parents, all of us clad in festive sweaters. I held my candle steady, careful not to spill wax on my fingers, imagining our voices rising to the heavens.
I always dreamed of sharing this experience with my own children.
When Leo was born, I thought I had that opportunity. His nursery was filled with Bibles and religious books, yet when it came time for bedtime stories, those books remained untouched. I found myself skimming through them, feeling a sense of discomfort. One day, as Leo sat on my lap with the Bible open before us, it hit me—I loved the idea of religion, but I didn’t believe a word of it.
Now, a few months after my realization, I often ponder what Christmas will mean for my children. Will they find the same beauty and wonder in the holiday as I did? Or will a secular Christmas feel as hollow as a trip to Disney World—a cherished memory, but ultimately empty?
The answer, it seems, is tied to the wolves.
This Christmas, our family will pile into the car and head north. In the northeastern corner of Minnesota, nestled in the Superior National Forest, there’s a protected area for wolves. Jake will park outside the interpretive center, and I’ll help the kids out of their car seats. Together, we’ll rush inside, shedding our coats and scarves in the lobby, greeted by the scent of damp wool and the squeak of our boots on the floor. Leo’s eyes will sparkle with excitement.
I don’t need to teach my kids about beauty; they recognize it already.
I don’t have to cling to old customs to find meaning in Christmas. As long as we’re together, it will be special.
We can gather in front of the glass windows. I’ll remove my mittens. Jake will take my hand, and the kids will wiggle between us, their fingers sticky from peppermint candy, peering around our legs into the dark exhibit, searching for life.
Above us, snowflakes will drift down, blending seamlessly with the stars.
Before us will be the wolves.
In summary, this Christmas marks a new chapter for my family, filled with love and shared moments rather than traditional religious practices. We will make our own meaning together, exploring the beauty of nature and connection.