It was a December evening...

          The first signs of the Christmas season had arrived. It was their very first Christmas in their adopted country. Canada was dressing itself in multicolored lights, shop windows glowing warmly, and familiar seasonal songs drifting through the cold air. For this small family of new Canadians, everything about the season felt tender, tentative, and new.

The year coming to an end had been a year of firsts, first winter, first home, first language learned on the fly, first Christmas far from everything they once knew. After all, it was the year they had arrived in their adopted country. “A country made by immigrants, for immigrants,” the immigration officer had said as he welcomed them at the airport on that frigid January morning. Now, months later, those words felt a little distant, as if winter itself had stretched endlessly since that day.

They were “newcomers.” That was the word people used when referring to them, whether they were within earshot or not. As if a single label could explain who they were. At first, the term didn’t bother them. It felt better than being called “refugees,” another designation that, in their opinion, failed to define them. Yet even they did not know how to define themselves in this vast new country. The adults in the family understood that, technically, the labels were accurate. They were newcomers. They were political refugees. Still, the words felt heavy.

More than once, in quiet conversations between themselves, they wondered why those labels unsettled them so deeply. They admitted the truth: Canada had rescued them, and they had lived here for less than a year. The facts were undeniable. Yet facts alone could not capture who they were becoming.

As they hung colorful ornaments and twinkling lights on their brand-new Christmas tree in the living room, the conversation returned to those troubling words. She asked, not really expecting an answer, more to the air itself, “Why do those designations bother us so much?” He had no answer, only nodded in agreement, aware that he felt the same unease.

They continued decorating their first Christmas tree in their newly adopted land. He held the ladder steady while she placed the final lights and ornaments on the branches of their Nova Scotia balsam fir (Abies balsamea), a Canadian native tree known for its rich fragrance, deep green needles, and remarkable resilience. It was the first evergreen they had ever owned.

As she climbed down the ladder, they suddenly realized that back home they had never had a tree like this. Christmas trees there were something else entirely, overdecorated local plants, really bushes, called huiscoyol, a thorny palm (Bactris subglobosa), abundant in Central America. They exchanged a glance and burst into laughter.

Their new country, they agreed, demanded new traditions, ones shaped by the north. “Besides,” she said between laughs, “where in this whole city would we even find a huiscoyol bush?”

He replied with mock seriousness, “I didn’t want to risk getting arrested for breaking a branch off the only one around, probably at Allan Gardens, 140 kilometers from here.”

Their laughter drew their children into the room. “What’s so funny?” they asked.

“The tree is ready,” their father said proudly. “Now it’s your turn to decorate the lower part.”

And just like that, another new tradition quietly took root on that chilly December evening.

Christmas Eve finally arrived. The family gathered around the tree for supper. They weren’t fully accustomed to celebrating on Christmas Day; back home, Christmas Eve was the heart of the festivities. Yet something had already changed.

Their mother reminisced softly. “When we were young, Christmas Eve was mostly an outdoor celebration. String lights hung from trees, little lanterns glowed, children ran through the streets setting off firecrackers and small mortars. It was noisy, joyful chaos. You don’t remember, you were too little.” Her voice grew quieter. “The war ended all that. It became too dangerous to be outside.”

Now, in their new reality, supper was a calm, almost ceremonial affair. The evening was silent and contained. Outside, the snow lay untouched, glowing faintly under the streetlights. They watched it through the window, feeling both sheltered and strangely distant from the world.

Suddenly, the phone rang.

“Who could be calling on Christmas Eve?” she asked no one in particular as she rose to answer.

It was the local homeless shelter. Since their arrival, both adults had volunteered there. It was meaningful work and offered a place to practice their English outside a classroom. He was the only volunteer with a driver’s license, which meant he was the only one allowed to drive the shelter van.

The caller explained that a woman had just been evicted and was stranded on the street with her baby. The overnight worker couldn’t leave the shelter and needed his help.

Without hesitation, he kissed his wife and children and drove to the shelter. The building was quiet, almost reverent. The overnight worker waited at the door, keys in hand.

An hour later, he returned with a young mother who was visibly cold, having waited far too long. She carried a tiny baby, so young, yet smiling brightly despite the freezing night. The shelter worker completed the intake and offered the mother a private room and to care for the baby while she took a warm shower. Gratefully, the young woman accepted.

As the paperwork ended, they noticed the clock, it was midnight.

“Merry Christmas,” he said softly.

The shelter worker smiled. “Thank you. I took this shift because I’m not Christian.”

They both laughed at the oddness and tenderness of the moment.

Five minutes later, his wife and children arrived in a taxi.

“What are you all doing here?” he asked, surprised.

“Well,” she replied, smiling, “it’s Christmas. And we thought the best place to remember what this season is really about is right here, where a mother and a child are struggling.” She gestured toward the shelter worker. “And you shouldn’t be alone on Christmas Eve. We brought food. Let’s feast.”

And in that quiet shelter, far from their homeland, surrounded by strangers who felt increasingly like family, the meaning of Christmas finally felt complete.