When I was a kid, Christmas was pure magic. Every year, I’d race home from school, eager to help my parents hang lights on our house. We’d string colorful bulbs along the roof, place glowing reindeer in the yard, and crown it all with a star so bright it felt like it could guide the whole town. Back then, Christmas wasn’t just a holiday—it was a feeling. A kind of magic that made the cold winter nights feel warm.

But as I got older, that magic began to fade. It happens to everyone, I suppose. The lights seemed less bright. The songs felt repetitive. By the time I was an adult, Christmas was just another season—something to get through rather than celebrate. I stopped putting up lights. I skipped holiday parties. I didn’t hate Christmas, but it didn’t feel special anymore. My family tried to pull me back in. “You used to love Christmas,” my mom would say every December. I’d shrug and tell her, “That was when I was a kid. It’s different now.” And so, another Christmas would pass without so much as a wreath on my door.

One snowy December night, just a few days before Christmas, I was driving home from work. The streets were quiet, and the snow was falling softly. I decided to take a shortcut down a country road, but my car suddenly sputtered to a stop. The engine wouldn’t turn over, and to top it off, my phone had no signal.

“Perfect,” I muttered, stepping out into the cold. That’s when I noticed a faint glow through the trees, a soft light shining in the distance. With no better option, I decided to follow it.

I trudged through the snow, and the light grew brighter with every step. Finally, I reached a clearing where an old, gnarled tree stood. Wrapped around its twisted branches were strands of lights, flickering weakly but still beautiful. Sitting beneath the tree was an old man in a red cloak, carefully tending to the lights.

“Lost your way, have you?” he asked without looking up.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, unsure of what to make of the situation. “My car broke down.”

He smiled faintly. “Cars break down. People lose their way. Happens all the time.”

“What are you doing out here?” I asked.

He gestured to the lights. “Keeping these alive. Someone has to. They’re not just lights, you know. They’re hope, joy, love—the very spirit of Christmas. But they’re fading.”

I frowned. “Why don’t you just replace them?”

The old man chuckled. “You think magic like this can be replaced? No, these lights need someone who still believes in what they stand for. Someone who can make them shine again.”

I shook my head. “Good luck finding someone like that.”

He stood then, his eyes twinkling. “Perhaps I already have.”

Before I could protest, he pressed something into my hands—a single bulb, warm and glowing. “Take it,” he said. “If you can make this shine as brightly as it once did, you’ll understand.”

And just like that, he vanished, leaving me alone in the clearing. I stared at the bulb for a long moment before heading back to my car, which miraculously started the moment I turned the key.

At home, I set the bulb on my desk, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the old man or his words. That night, I dreamed of the lights from my childhood—the way they lit up the neighborhood, the laughter of my family, the joy of it all. When I woke up, something inside me stirred, like a spark catching fire. I dug out an old box of Christmas lights from the closet. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt compelled to put them up. As I strung the lights around my house, memories came flooding back: the way my dad would hand me the star to place on the roof, the smell of hot cocoa after a long day of decorating. By the time I finished, my house looked more festive than it had in years.

When I plugged in the final strand, something incredible happened. The single bulb from the old man lit up, glowing brighter than anything I’d ever seen. Its light spread to the rest of the display, and for the first time in years, I felt the warmth of Christmas.

That year, neighbors stopped by to admire my lights. “I didn’t know you were into Christmas,” one of them said. I just smiled and told them, “I guess I forgot for a while.”

But it wasn’t just about the lights. I realized they weren’t just decorations—they were a way to bring people together, to remind them of the magic we all seem to forget as we grow older. Every year since, I’ve added more lights, and more people have come to see them.

I never told anyone about the old man or the glowing bulb that still sits at the heart of my display. Until telling you this story. But I know why I do it. It’s not just for the lights. It’s for the people who gather beneath them, for the joy and hope they take with them when they leave.

When people ask me, “Why do you go to so much trouble?” I just smile and say, “Because sometimes, a little light can make all the difference.”

–Jeff “The Keeper of the Christmas Light”