Christmas Eve in Oak Ridge, Tennessee
A ritual of family love and togetherness from my childhood.
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You matter to me. I believe in you and your dreams. Remember if you can dream it, you can do it. I’m sharing a special memory from my childhood today on Christmas Eve. I hope you enjoy it. Please remember to hit the heart at the top or bottom of this post so that the algorymths will help others find my writing. Happy holidays to you!
Rituals are the glue that holds families together across generations.
They’re not just traditions we repeat—they’re the containers that hold our values, our love, and our sense of belonging. The rituals we create for our children become the memories they carry into adulthood, the foundation they build their own lives upon.
One of the most powerful things you can give the people you love isn’t a gift under the tree—it’s a ritual that says,
“You belong here. You are seen. You are loved.”
Rituals create the container for unconditional love to be expressed, received, and remembered. They’re how we pass down not just traditions, but values. Not just memories, but meaning.
As I prepare to host Christmas Eve for my in-laws and almost three-year-old grandson this year, I find myself returning to the ritual my grandparents created for me and my siblings every Christmas Eve in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. A ritual so consistent, so filled with love, that decades later I can still feel Nana’s kiss on my cheek and taste those warm yeast rolls she made each year.
Let me tell you about the Christmas Eve ritual that shaped my understanding of love...
On Christmas Eve, our family of six squeezed into our white Oldsmobile, the vinyl seats cold despite our Sunday best. Dad carefully arranged all the presents for Nana and Grandaddy Barker in the trunk. Mom cradled the glass dish of Jello salad in her lap like precious cargo—whipped cream, marshmallows, and coconut shimmering pink and white under the streetlights during our 15-minute drive to Orchard Circle.
As we turned onto their street, there they were—the plug-in candles glowing in every window of their ranch-style house. Outside it was 16 degrees, that sharp Tennessee cold that makes your breath fog and your cheeks sting. My heart jumped and goosebumps raced up both arms—though whether from cold or excitement, I couldn’t tell. Those candles meant Christmas was really here. Dad eased the Oldsmobile into the driveway of the flattop house with its open carport.
The kitchen door swung open before we could knock—they’d been watching for us.
There was Nana in her Christmas best: a soft sweater, her pearl necklace (the one she wore for every special occasion), a straight skirt that fell just below her knees, hose, and low heels. She looked elegant and warm all at once.
Dad was their only child. The four of us grandchildren were the light of their lives. She and Grandaddy bent down, one by one, to kiss each of their four grandchildren—my older brother, me, my sister, and little Byron.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Nana said to me, her voice soft with that Tennessee lilt.
“Hi, honey,” Grandaddy added, pulling me close.
Their love was unconditional and a grounding force in our lives.
As we were ushered into the kitchen, we were hit by a wall of smells—roasting turkey, yeast rolls browning in the oven, dressing fragrant with sage, rosemary, and onions. Grandaddy stood ready to help, always there in the kitchen, preparing the turkey and serving, making sure everything was perfect for us.
“Honey,” Nana said, pulling me close, “I have the hors d’oeuvres you like in the living room.I have your favorite pitted black olives, cream cheese stuffed celery, and tiny Gerkin pickles.”
My mouth watered. “Oh good, I’m starving!”
I walked through the kitchen into the dining room and stopped. The table was set with their best china and crystal glasses catching the light. And there, in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Christmas tree blazed with color.
The old-fashioned bubble lights percolated in their tubes—those magical lights I’d stare at, mesmerized by the colored liquid bubbling up and down.
Large colored bulbs—red, green, blue, yellow—made the whole tree glow like a jewel box. Underneath, wrapped in bright Christmas paper with ribbons curled into perfect spirals, sat a present for each of us.
But we knew the ritual. Dinner first. Dishes cleared, washed, dried, put away. Only then—ONLY then—could we open gifts.
When we finally sat down at that perfectly set table, we all joined hands. Grandaddy said grace—they were Methodist, we were Presbyterian, but love spoke the same language at that table.
Grandaddy carved the turkey right there at the table, the platter steaming in front of him, his carving knife moving with practiced precision. We passed the dishes around—the golden-brown yeast rolls that smelled like heaven itself, the dressing fragrant with rosemary, sage, and onions, mashed potatoes with a well of gravy in the center. Mom fixed Byron’s plate, cutting his turkey into small pieces while the rest of us served ourselves, trying not to pile our plates too high (though we always did).
That first bite of Nana’s yeast roll, still warm and buttery, melting on my tongue—I can taste it even now.
The dressing was perfection, the perfect blend of herbs with that slight crispness on top where it had browned in the oven.
After dinner came the work we all pitched in to do—clearing the table, washing, drying, putting every dish away. The anticipation built with each plate dried and stacked.
Then, finally, we gathered in the living room around that glowing tree with its bubbling lights and big colored bulbs.
Our ritual was sacred and never varied. Dad played Santa, the same role every year. He’d pick up each gift carefully, reading the tag aloud before handing it over. Byron, the baby at four years younger than my sister, always went first. The three of us older kids—my brother, nineteen months older than me; me; and my sister, nineteen months younger—would watch as he tore into his package, usually a toy, his face lighting up brighter than those bubble lights.
Then it was our turns, one by one. We weren’t chaotic or grabbing. We’d learned to watch each other, to savor each moment. My gift was usually something practical—a winter hat, warm gloves, something Nana knew I needed. But it was wrapped in that colorful Christmas paper with ribbons curled into perfect spirals, and that made even gloves feel magical.
After us kids came Nana and Grandaddy’s turn—they always acted surprised and delighted, as if they didn’t know what was in the packages. Finally, Mom and Dad opened theirs, the adults taking their time with the colorful paper and curled ribbons.
The room was warm with the glow of the tree, those bubble lights still percolating steadily in their tubes, and the kind of love that wraps around you like a blanket.
I didn’t realize in the moment how special it was—how could I? It was just Christmas Eve, just what we did. The ritual, the magic of the twinkling lights, the turkey and olives and curled ribbons. The love that wrapped around us as securely as Nana’s hugs.
It was every single Christmas Eve, without fail, until they passed away. That’s when I understood: they had given us the gift of being seen, being cherished, being unconditionally loved.
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This year, John and I are hosting Christmas Eve at our house for my son, his wife Sarah, and their three-year-old son. Sarah’s parents are our guests during the holiday and will stay downstairs in our Airbnb. John and I are making turkey, dressing, twice-baked potatoes, green beans, and salad. After dinner, we’ll clear the table, then sit down in the living room with a fire in the fireplace and watch our grandson open his gifts.
I want to be the grandmother who loves her grandson unconditionally, just as our Nana and Grandaddy Barker did with us.
Appreciating what shows up in your life changes your personal vibration—that gratitude elevates your life to a higher frequency.
As I set my own table this Christmas Eve, I feel Nana with me. I understand now what she knew then: that what we focus on expands. She focused on love, and it multiplied across generations.
Now it’s my turn to be that presence for my grandson, to show him through turkey and twice-baked potatoes and presents by the fire that he is unconditionally loved—just as I was.
I wish you a happy holiday this season. It’s been a hard year for all of us. But remember, we’re in this together and together we can get through it.
XO, Sherold
P.S. Want to work with me in 2026? I only work with a few clients at a time to help them improve their lives or get unstuck. It’s always a belief that holds them back. I’m like a roto rooter for digging up the thoughts, fears or limiting beliefs that block you from what you want in life. I have a small package of three sessions or a three-month package to work with me every other week. If you’re interested, I can schedule a Zoom call to talk with you. Email me at sherold@sheroldbarr.com.