My Hope For A Silent, Holy Night

So here it is Christmas Eve. The world has slowed, and I find myself here alone at the radio station. No, this isn’t a complaint or a plea for sympathy—this moment of solitude is by design. For years now, I’ve been the last one out, ensuring everything is prepared for the Christmas holiday with as little need for intervention as possible (though we all know how best-laid plans go). While I’m not the only one working—our other studios in another town are likely also getting everything ready for tomorrow—but here in town, it’s just me.

The station is quiet, save for the soft strains of Christmas music I’ve turned on (of course) after silencing the usual news and commentary. There’s something about this calmness I cherish, a stillness that stands in contrast to December’s frenetic pace. Sure, we’ll still have work between Christmas and New Year’s, but for now, there’s this pause—a moment to reflect before the joyful chaos resumes.

This quiet, this peace, reminds me of a night years ago that forever shaped how I view this season. It’s a deeply personal story, one I share not to persuade or proselytize, but simply because it’s part of my journey.

Christmas morning in our house has always been gloriously chaotic—filled with laughter, excitement, and now, the joy of a new generation to celebrate with. But one Christmas Eve stands apart. The kids were finally asleep, the preparations done, and we retired to bed. Yet sleep eluded me. Not wanting to disturb Tammy, I moved to the living room, sitting in my chair, hoping to settle my restless mind.

As the minutes ticked by, a remarkable thing happened. The quiet around me deepened, a profound stillness I can only describe as peace amplified. And in that instant, the world seemed to stop. In the ultimate stillness, I heard a baby cry—not just any baby, The Baby. The One in the manger, the One in Bethlehem. In that moment, the reality of salvation and grace penetrated my soul.

That fleeting instant has stayed with me ever since. It defined Christmas for me: the stillness, the clarity, the joy. I’m reminded of a song, The Hour Before Christmas, which perfectly captures this sense of calm after the season’s flurry.

Get our free mobile app

Tonight, after work is done, I'll head off to join the family at the home of one of our kids, so I won't be at home tonight. But if I were, and you were to pass by our home, you would likely see a small reading lamp glowing in the living room. You’d find me sitting quietly, listening, and waiting—for peace, for joy, and for the miracle of Christmas.

Merry Christmas.