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What if the most sacred part of Christmas isn’t what we plan, but what we pause long enough to notice.

Psalm 24:7–10

Lift up your heads, you gates;
    be lifted up, you ancient doors,
    that the King of glory may come in.
 Who is this King of glory?
    The Lord strong and mighty,
    the Lord mighty in battle.
Lift up your heads, you gates;
    lift them up, you ancient doors,
    that the King of glory may come in.
Who is he, this King of glory?
    The Lord Almighty—
    he is the King of glory.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what our kids will remember.
Not the things we work so hard to get just right, but the things that just happen. The little moments that sneak in quietly between the chaos, the ones we don’t plan, but somehow treasure.

I only have three Christmases left before my oldest graduates high school. Just three. That number keeps rolling around in my head. It’s sobering. Because I know how quickly the calendar fills up this time of year. December tends to take over if you let it. There are school events, church parties, wrapping, shopping, budgeting, exams, and a constant low hum of pressure that seems to follow us everywhere.

There’s a whole list of “have to’s” that show up with the season. And I’m realizing that if we’re not careful, those “have to’s” will start crowding out the “get to’s.” The memories. The connection. The stillness. The presence.

Our kids don’t need perfect. They need present.
They need us.

And not the version of us that’s running around making everything magical for everyone else. They need the kind of presence that slows down enough to see them, to laugh with them, to sit beside them without a phone in hand. The moments they’ll remember have far less to do with how pretty the table was set, and far more to do with who sat around it.

Last year, right before hosting a holiday gathering, I got sick and landed in the hospital for several days. I was in no shape to host anything. But my mom and mother in law stepped in and took care of everything. They cleaned the house, cooked the food, pulled it all together. I barely did anything. I just showed up.

That day, I stood in the corner of my kitchen watching people make their plates, swap stories, and laugh over nothing at all. And I had one of those moments you wish you could bottle up and keep forever. I snapped a picture, not of the food or the decorations, but of the people. The sacred, ordinary beauty of being together.

What struck me wasn’t how well everything came together.
It was how easily I could have missed it.

Not because I was sick.
But because I usually don’t stop long enough to notice.

That realization has been following me this Advent. And it’s what led me back to Psalm 24.

Psalm 24:7–10 reads like a call and response, almost like a sacred dialogue echoing through the streets.

“Lift up your heads, you gates; be lifted up, you ancient doors, that the King of Glory may come in.”

This is not a whisper. It’s a command. A declaration. A moment where heaven interrupts the ordinary flow of life and demands attention.

Historically, this psalm was likely sung as the Ark of the Covenant was brought into Jerusalem. The Ark symbolized the very presence of God among His people. This wasn’t just a parade or a religious ceremony. It was a holy moment. God’s nearness returning to dwell with them. The city itself was being summoned to respond.

The gates and doors were literal, but Hebrew poetry is never only literal. Gates represented access. Doors represented permission. What was closed could now be opened. What had been guarded could now be yielded.

And then comes the question, asked twice for emphasis.

“Who is this King of Glory?”

The answer matters, because it tells us why the doors must open.

“The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle.”

This King does not arrive weak or needy. He is not asking to be squeezed into whatever space is left over. He comes victorious. Authoritative. Worthy of the best seat, the first word, the highest place.

And yet, notice what He does not do.
He does not force His way in.

The gates are commanded to open, but they still must respond.

That’s where this psalm stops being ancient history and starts becoming personal.

Because the gates are no longer just city walls. They are our homes. Our schedules. Our habits. Our inner lives. The places where we decide what gets access and what stays out.

Advent asks a confrontational question without sounding harsh.
Have we lifted our heads, or have we been living with them down, consumed by lists, pressure, and noise?
Have we prepared room for the King of Glory, or have we unintentionally filled every corner with lesser things?

The psalm repeats itself again, almost as if to slow us down.

“Lift up your heads, you gates; lift them up, you ancient doors, that the King of Glory may come in.”

Why repeat it?

Because we miss it the first time.
Because familiarity dulls urgency.
Because we assume we already know who Jesus is, and yet still live as if He were a guest instead of a King.

The final answer lands with full force.

“The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord Almighty, He is the King of Glory.”

Not just strong.
Almighty.

Not just present.
Reigning.

Not just born.
Victorious.

This is the tension of Christmas we often skip past. The baby in the manger is the same King who commands doors to open. The humility of His coming does not diminish His authority. It deepens it.

And that truth changes how we prepare.

What if we don’t just add Him to the calendar.
We remove what crowds Him out.

What if we don’t just celebrate the moment.
We submit the house.

So the questions become painfully practical.
Have I made room for Him in my home?
In my head?
In my habits?

Am I lifting my eyes, or just keeping my head down and pushing through December?
What if we’ve made room for everything, except Him?

And What will our kids remember?

One of my favorite Christmas memories growing up wasn’t about gifts or lights. It was the way our house felt. My grandmother humming in the kitchen. Riding in the car to look at Christmas lights. The smell of dressing in the oven. Nobody rushing. Nobody scrolling. There was margin for moments. And somehow, the quiet made everything feel more full.

It makes me wonder what kind of atmosphere we’re creating.
For our kids.
For our grandkids.
For the people who will gather at our tables this year.

Are we holding space for the holy?
Or just filling space with hustle?

I’m not saying that to bring shame. Not one bit.
I’m saying it as a friend who’s right here with you, wanting to make the most of the time we’ve been given.

Because here’s what I’m learning.
The big things are actually the little things.
And the little things end up being the big ones after all.

Big things.
Sports schedules. College decisions. Grades. Driver’s licenses. Wedding days.

Little things.
Dinner on a Tuesday.
A backseat conversation.
Board games with cousins.
Pop’s voice saying grace.
Quiet laughter in the living room.

So let’s ask ourselves, gently and honestly.
Are we letting the “have to’s” crowd out the moments we actually get to have?
Are we decorating for Him, but not opening the door to Him?
Are we planning everything, but treasuring nothing?

Psalm 24 ends with a question.

“Who is He, this King of Glory?”

And the answer echoes back.

“The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord Almighty, He is the King of Glory.”

So lift your head.
Open the door.
Make room in your home, not just for the memories, but for the King of Glory Himself. No shame. Just an invitation.

To slow down.
To notice.
To make room.

RESET STEP

This week, pause before the rush. Light a candle, turn off the noise, and intentionally invite the King of Glory to fill your home. Ask Him to show you what needs to move aside so He can take His rightful place again. Capture one small, sacred moment each day and reflect on what God might be revealing through it.

Freebie

This week’s freebie is the final Heartwork Page. These pages help you reset your mind with the things that matter. All free resources are always available inside The Reset Room. If you need access to The Reset Room click here to get the password.

Until next time, keep living, learning, and seeing it all through the lens of grace.