A Blue Christmas in the Mountains

This morning I stood at the cabin window, coffee in hand, staring out at a world stripped down to its essentials. The trees are bare now, their branches etched against an overcast sky like quiet pencil drawings. Beyond them stretches a long range of mountains, layered in soft shades of blue—the kind of blue that doesn’t feel cold so much as thoughtful. The kind that invites you to pause.

Winter has settled in up here. Not the dramatic, snow-globe kind—just a calm, gray stillness that feels like the earth holding its breath. Christmas is only two days away, and the mountains seem to know it. Everything feels hushed, as if creation itself is waiting for something holy… or at least for cookies to come out of the oven.

Looking at all that blue, I can’t help but hear Elvis crooning in my head: “I’ll have a blue Christmas without you…” It fits the view perfectly. And if I’m honest, it fits my heart a little too. Christmas has a way of shining a bright light on who’s missing from the room. I miss the noise of a full house, the overlapping conversations, the laughter coming from three directions at once. I miss the chaos—because love often looks like chaos when everyone you love is together.

But this is where gratitude gently taps me on the shoulder.

While not everyone can be here this year, we won’t be alone. Our youngest daughter and her husband are coming up to celebrate Christmas with us, and they always arrive carrying more than suitcases. They bring joy, laughter, and a happy energy that fills every corner of the cabin. The kind that makes even a quiet mountain Christmas feel festive—and somehow louder than expected (especially once games start or someone burns something in the kitchen).

They have a way of reminding me that joy doesn’t have to be big to be real. Sometimes it shows up in shared meals, late-night talks, and laughter echoing off cabin walls. Sometimes it looks like two young people walking through the door, instantly warming the whole place just by being themselves.

So yes, it may be a blue Christmas—blue skies muted by gray, blue mountains fading into the distance, blue notes humming softly in my heart. But blue doesn’t always mean sad. Sometimes it means deep. Sometimes it means reflective. And sometimes it’s just the color of a beautiful mountain morning that reminds you how blessed you still are.

From this cabin window, with leafless trees and layered blues stretching as far as I can see, I’m choosing gratitude. And maybe humming a little Elvis, too—just not too loud. The mountains deserve their quiet.