The Great Christmas Debate
Every year, right after the last pumpkin gets dumped in the compost, Beth-Rose starts in with the Christmas cheer. She’s a holiday fanatic. The moment November 1 hits, she’s got her playlist queued up, her Pinterest boards (does she use Pinterest?…) full of garland ideas, and a twinkle in her eye that could light a thousand string lights.
“Dad,” she’ll say, “we could just put up the lights. Not plug them in. Just prep work!”
I’ll look at her with mock horror. “Prep work? On November first? That’s sacrilege.”
She knows it drives me nuts. She does it on purpose, of course. It’s our annual battle. Some families argue about politics or sports. We argue about premature tinsel deployment.
And I always say the same thing: Not until after November 11.
The Pause Before the Lights
It’s not that I hate Christmas. Far from it. I love the season once it arrives properly. But for me, the days leading up to November 11 belong to something else entirely.
I need that pause. That breath. That quiet space before the world fills with glitter and way too much Mariah Carey. A little Remembrance Day reflection.
Remembrance Day has always meant something personal to me. It isn’t just a ceremony or a moment of silence. It’s part of my family’s story. My dad served in the Royal Canadian Navy during the Second World War. He was barely more than a kid himself, sailing the North Atlantic in a Corvette, a small, fast escort ship built to hunt submarines and protect merchant convoys.
The North Atlantic was a brutal place in winter. The waves could swallow a ship whole. And the enemy was invisible, lurking below the surface.
Dad talked a lot about the war, especially near the end of his life. Some of his stories were about the guys he served with. Some were horrifying.
The Wave That Never Ended
One story stayed with me. He told me about a storm that rolled across the Atlantic one winter. The seas were monstrous, so big that ships disappeared completely behind the swells. He was on deck when a freighter ahead of them climbed an enormous wave, teetered for a moment at the crest, and then plunged down the other side. When it reached the bottom, it kept going.
It never came back up.
He could see pieces of debris in the water. Oil slicks. Maybe the flash of a life jacket. But the Corvette couldn’t stop. If they slowed down or turned back, they risked being torpedoed.
So they pressed on.
He said it quietly, without drama. Just a statement of fact. But I saw it in his eyes. That moment never really left him.
When I was a kid, I didn’t fully understand what that kind of loss meant. Now, older and ever so slightly wiser, I realize that memory weighed more than any medal he ever earned.
My Remembrance Day Reflection
That’s why November 11 matters to me. It’s not just about history or tradition. It’s about recognizing the people behind the stories. The men and women who faced unthinkable fear and did their duty anyway.
When I stand in silence at 11:00 a.m., I think about my dad on that cold deck, gripping the rail as the sea tore around him. I think about the families who waited months for letters that might never come. And I think about how easy it is to forget.
We live in a world now where memory is fleeting. News cycles reset every hour. Social media scrolls past tragedy before we’ve even had time to process it. Remembrance Day forces us to stop. It asks us to sit with discomfort for a minute, to acknowledge that freedom didn’t just happen. Someone paid for it.
And while we argue about whether to hang wreaths or icicle lights, it’s good to remember the kind of cold our parents and grandparents faced; the kind that came with fear and duty and sacrifice.
The Weight of Gratitude
Every year, when Beth-Rose pokes at me to start Christmas early, we talk about Grandad. About the convoy that kept sailing through the storm. About the men who didn’t come home.
She rolls her eyes a little, because that’s what teenagers do. But she also listens. She knows this is more than just my stubbornness. It’s my way of saying thank you. And she gets it. In fact, this year as a high school senior, she was the MC for the school’s Remembrance Day assembly.
And honestly, I think that’s what remembrance really is. Gratitude. Not the light, easy kind we feel when someone holds a door for us, but the kind that sits deep in your chest and makes you want to be a little better than you were yesterday.
I’m grateful for the life I get to live because others gave theirs. For the peace that allows me to joke with my daughter about Christmas lights. For the freedom to complain about the price of gas, or politics, or the weather, instead of fearing for my life.
That’s a luxury they fought for. And that’s my personal Remembrance Day reflection.
After the Silence
When the ceremonies are over and the poppies start to fade, I’ll finally let Beth-Rose haul out the boxes of Christmas decorations. She’ll crank up the music and hum along as we string the lights on the house.
And maybe that’s fitting, in its own way. Because remembrance isn’t meant to keep us trapped in sorrow. It’s meant to remind us what all that sacrifice was for, so that we could live, and laugh, and fill our homes with warmth and color again.
I think Dad would have liked that.
Actually, he would have sat in his favourite chair, newspaper in his lap, and smiled and laughed.
So on this November 11, before the sparkle and the tinsel take over, I’ll stand quietly for a few moments. I’ll think about a young sailor staring out over an angry sea, and the countless others like him.
And when the clock strikes eleven, I’ll remember. My Remembrance Day reflection.
Then, when the silence lifts, I’ll turn toward the light; toward family, laughter, and the life their courage made possible.
Because remembering isn’t about staying in the past. It’s about carrying their spirit forward. And that, I think, is the best kind of Christmas preparation there is.
