Advent Calendar Day 9
There are books that find us in December, as though carried on a quiet drift of snow, and this year one of my greatest joys has been discovering Tolkien’s Letters from Father Christmas.
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Now, I must confess something: I am not a reader of Tolkien. Fantasy, whether in books or films, has never been my landscape of choice. Too many swords, too many battles, too much marketing around The Lord of the Rings for my gentle-reader spirit. And yet — how wrong I was to imagine that this defined him entirely.
Opening Letters from Father Christmas felt like being let into a private family ritual, one stitched together with imagination, kindness, and a sense of play that only deepens with age. For more than twenty years, Tolkien wrote yearly letters to his children, each signed by Father Christmas himself — sometimes accompanied by notes from the mischievous Polar Bear or a dutiful elf with impeccable penmanship.
I read the first two letters and immediately wondered: Who was this man, really?
His creativity was not loud or theatrical here — it was tender. Quiet. Brimming with whimsy. The sort of magic that doesn’t overwhelm you but meets you at eye level, like a parent kneeling beside a child, spinning a world into life with nothing but ink and love.
This is the book I would have treasured as a child — read until the spine cracked, the pages softened, the familiar letters memorised the way children remember the cadence of a lullaby. The humour is gentle, the mischief delightful, and the warmth unmistakable. These letters don’t simply portray Father Christmas; they embody him. They whisper that the magic of the holidays isn’t something we outgrow. It moves into us, quietly, year after year.
Why It Feels Like a Holiday Ritual
A tradition built of imagination: Tolkien’s yearly letters remind me that ritual doesn’t need grandeur — sometimes it’s a piece of paper, a coloured pencil, and a wish to keep wonder alive.
The tenderness of handmade stories: There’s something deeply comforting in the thought of a father staying up late to craft a new tale for small hands to discover on Christmas morning. The season is full of gifts, but storytelling is the one that lasts.
Magic as something we choose: Reading these letters each December feels like participating in a lineage of enchantment — the kind that isn’t about belief in Santa, but belief in our own capacity for gentleness, humour, and delight.
I’ve decided this will become a yearly read for me — a December companion of sorts. It brings back memories of my own childhood encounter with Father Christmas when I was four: the red, cold nose; the soft creaking of his boots; the way he seemed impossibly real in the glow of Christmas Eve. Looking back now, I realise how closely he resembled my father returning home from work in winter — his own nose just as red, his hands just as cold, his presence just as magical.
Some books reconnect us not just to stories, but to the tenderness of our own beginnings. Letters from Father Christmas does exactly that.
Written by Alexandra Poppy
Writer, reader & curator of The Ritual of Reading
I’m Alexandra, the voice behind The Ritual of Reading. Somewhere between a stack of novels and a half-finished pot of tea, I keep finding traces of the life I want to live—slower, richer, filled with stories. The Ritual of Reading is where I gather what I love: books that linger, places with a past, and rituals that make ordinary days feel a little more meaningful. I write from Paris, where elegant bookshops and old-fashioned cafĂ©s offer endless inspiration—and I share it here, hoping it brings a spark to your own days, too.
