Christmas morning is one of my favorite moments of the year.
Kids on the floor. Wrapping paper flying everywhere. A hot cup of coffee in my hand while I sit on the couch, perfectly content, watching them take turns ripping into gifts. Laughter. Joy. Cooperation. Actual kindness toward each other.
It’s beautiful.
It feels a little like heaven… or at least how heaven might feel with Legos.
And then the day after Christmas comes.
You wake up. Walk into the living room. And suddenly the magic is gone.
The tree is still there, but now it’s surrounded by opened boxes, instruction manuals you’ll never read, and toys scattered in ways that defy physics. The kitchen table is overflowing with half-finished Lego builds, bracelet makers mid-project, molding clay that’s already dried out, and a 3D pen that somehow already needs new filament.
And then you hear it.
The arguing.
The fighting.
The “He touched my stuff!” and “She started it!”
Full reversal.
I just stand there shaking my head like, How did we get here in less than 24 hours?
And that’s when it hit me.
This is kind of the human story.
We love the arrival moments—the celebration, the joy, the wonder. But we struggle with the after. After the gifts are opened. After the emotions settle. After the routine comes back.
It reminds me of the Israelites. God shows up in powerful ways—miracles, provision, freedom—and everyone is amazed. But not long after, they’re arguing, complaining, and asking, “Are we sure this was a good idea?”
The miracle didn’t stop being real.
The problem was what happened after the moment passed.
Faith isn’t just about the big, beautiful days. It’s about what we do the morning after—when the mess is visible, patience is thin, and life feels loud again.
And maybe that’s where God does some of His best work.
Not in the perfectly wrapped moments, but in the messy living rooms… teaching us patience, grace, and how to love each other when the magic feels gone.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need another cup of coffee—and possibly a Lego injury report.
