After spending so much time this year learning that I don’t need to have an answer for everything, I’m heading into the holidays with an opportunity to practice.
Because nothing tests that quite like gathering people you love around a dinner table.
People who have known you forever. People who remember things you would prefer they had forgotten. People with opinions about how you cook, how you live and whether the turkey is done.
I love getting everyone together. I love making the house feel beautiful and thinking about what we’ll eat. I enjoy the preparations, right down to the details that probably matter more to me than they do to anyone coming over.
But what I’m looking forward to is having the people I love in the same room.
And I’m reminding myself that we don’t have to agree on everything to enjoy being there.
That sounds obvious until someone says something and you feel yourself preparing a response before they’ve even finished.
Maybe they have an opinion about a decision you’ve made. Maybe a conversation takes a turn you wish it hadn’t. Or someone tells a family story, and apparently you and this person attended two entirely different events.
There is something about family that can bring out a version of us we thought we had outgrown.
We can be perfectly capable adults in every other part of our lives and still feel compelled to explain ourselves to someone who remembers our haircut from eighth grade.
I’m trying to give myself a little room to laugh about that.
Because I don’t want to spend a beautiful evening proving that I’ve been misunderstood. And I certainly don’t want to be so busy anticipating a difficult moment that I miss all the good ones.
I think we sometimes put too much pressure on these gatherings before anyone even arrives.
We want the food to turn out, the house to look lovely and everyone to have a good time. We hope certain subjects won’t come up. We quietly wish people would behave a little differently than they have at every previous holiday.
Then we’re disappointed when they arrive as themselves.
I’m learning to make plans that account for the people who are actually coming.
If someone loves to give advice, there will probably be advice. If someone tells long stories, I can expect to hear one. And if someone has always had a strong opinion about the proper way to make stuffing, this probably won’t be the year they become indifferent.
I can know these things without letting them spoil my anticipation.
There’s even some affection in recognizing the familiar habits of people we love. We have our own, too. I’m sure my family could make a list of mine, although I don’t think we need to introduce that activity at dinner.
What helps me is remembering why I wanted everyone there in the first place.
I want time together. I want to hear what’s happening in their lives. I want the conversations that happen while someone is helping in the kitchen or lingering at the table after the plates have been cleared.
Those moments are easy to overlook when we’re concentrating on whether the whole evening is going according to plan.
And sometimes enjoying them means allowing a comment to pass without doing anything with it.
I can hear an opinion without offering my own. I can think, “Well, I see that differently,” and continue eating.
I’m not suggesting this comes naturally every time. There are subjects I care deeply about. There are moments when I will want to speak up. But I’m trying to be more thoughtful about whether a conversation has somewhere useful to go.
Is someone curious about what I think? Are we having an exchange, or are we taking turns making our case?
If neither of us is listening anymore, I’m comfortable changing the subject.
“I think we’re going to see that differently. Tell me about your trip.”
That is a perfectly reasonable contribution to dinner.
So is, “I’m happy with the decision, but thank you for caring.”
I don’t have to provide the entire history of how I arrived at a choice just because someone asks about it between the salad and the main course.
And if something lands poorly, I can address it simply. “I’d rather we didn’t joke about that” may be all that’s needed. I can be clear and then give the evening a chance to continue.
There’s a lot of room between swallowing everything and turning something into a confrontation.
I also want to get better at asking questions that lead somewhere enjoyable.
What are you looking forward to? What have you been doing lately that you love? What’s a holiday memory you still think about?
I’d much rather hear a story I haven’t heard than revisit an argument everyone already knows.
And if I’m hosting, I can help make room for that. I can draw someone quieter into the conversation. Ask about something that matters to them. Invite someone into the kitchen and give us a few minutes together while we finish getting dinner ready.
Sometimes having a small thing to do together makes conversation easier.
Of course, we may still have an awkward moment. Someone may get impatient. I may discover that I’ve been giving instructions for the last twenty minutes and could stand to sit down myself.
We can recover from those things.
An evening doesn’t have to go perfectly to become a memory we’re glad to have.
That feels especially important to me as our family grows. I think about my grandson and the holidays ahead, and I find myself caring less about whether everything is done exactly as I imagined.
I want him to grow up knowing the pleasure of being welcomed, fed and fussed over. Of hearing familiar voices and knowing he belongs among them.
We can start creating that feeling now.
So before your next gathering, think about one thing you’d like to enjoy while everyone is together. Make it something you can participate in, like sitting beside someone you haven’t seen in a while or asking your mother to tell you that story again.
Give that a little of the attention you might otherwise spend worrying.
We won’t all see everything the same way. But I hope we can find plenty to enjoy about one another.
And when the potatoes come around, I hope we’re still hungry.