Advent Calendar Day 23
There is something quietly magical in turning the page on a short Christmas tale by Louisa May Alcott: a sense of home, of small kindnesses, of time suspended in gentle snow. As my Advent ritual nears its close, these stories feel like the final flicker of candlelight — delicate, warm, deeply familiar.
Louisa May Alcott may be best known for Little Women, but her Christmas stories are a secret, comforting treasure. In her collection, she writes not of grand miracles, but of simple generosity: neighbors helping neighbors, children sharing in modest delight, and a gentle reminder that spirit is found in everyday gestures.
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One of her most tender tales, A Christmas Dream, and How It Came to Be True, is full of hopeful longing. The characters dream of something more than presents — they imagine a kindness that changes hearts. These stories aren’t sentimental for sentiment’s sake; they’re grounded in real human warmth, in the giving of one’s time, one’s care, one’s small self.
Another story, What the Bell Saw and Said, invites you into a quieter meditation: a bell witnessing the comings and goings of a household, hearing the soft whispers, the prayers, the laughter. It’s as if Alcott is asking us to listen — to the hush between the words, to the gentle rhythms of family and community.
“You see, when people once begin to do kindnesses, it is so easy and pleasant, they find it hard to leave off; and sometimes it beautifies them so that they find they love one another very much—as Mr. Chrome and Miss Kent discovered that wondrous day.”
Louisa May Alcott, A Merry Christmas: And Other Christmas Stories
In these pages, Christmas isn’t about spectacle. It’s about being seen, about humbly offering what you can, about holding space for others. The snow may fall gently, but the impact is profound: each character learns that true joy comes from connection.
Reading Alcott at this time of year feels like curling up under a fleece blanket, with a mug of something warm in hand. Her writing reminds me that holidays don’t need to be grand to be sacred; they only need to be sincere.
I think what draws me so deeply to Alcott’s stories now — as an adult, revisiting her work — is that she doesn’t shy away from hardship. There is tension, longing, even regret in her Christmas tales. But she balances all of it with hope. That, to me, is the essence of a ritual: acknowledging imperfection, yet choosing love.
Before you close the book for today, I’d love to invite you into a quiet ritual :
Take a moment in your space. Light a candle, or simply settle into a corner where you feel gentle and calm.
Think of someone in your life — perhaps someone who would appreciate a moment of kindness, or someone whose presence already feels like a gift.
Ask yourself: If I could write them a small Christmas story, as an act of care, what would I imagine for them?
You don’t need to draft it, but hold that image for a breath. Let it become part of your holiday ritual, a whispered wish you might turn into gesture when the season looks like ordinary days again.
Alcott’s stories show us that the heart of the holidays isn’t in dazzling lights or lavish gifts, but in the soft echo of kindness. As the season draws near its close, may we carry that echo with us — into our homes, our conversations, and our evenings of quiet.
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 cafés offer endless inspiration—and I share it here, hoping it brings a spark to your own days, too.
