The Magic Is Still There

Halloween is here again, and I find myself smiling every time I walk past the bowl of candy waiting for the little ghosts, princesses, superheroes, firefighters, dinosaurs, and tiny witches who will soon be ringing our doorbell. Every year I tell myself I'm buying the candy for the children, but if I'm being completely honest, I think I enjoy preparing for Halloween almost as much as they enjoy trick-or-treating. There is something wonderfully heartwarming about watching children experience the world with such excitement. For one evening, imagination takes over, neighborhoods come alive, and for just a little while the world feels a bit lighter.

Halloween has always been one of Tim's favorite days of the year. Long before life became complicated, he loved sitting by the front door waiting for the first knock. He never wanted to be the house that handed out the tiny pieces of candy. No, around here it's always been the big candy bars. The expressions on the children's faces when they realize they're getting something unexpected are almost as much fun to watch as the costumes themselves. Some of them light up with huge smiles. Others look back at their parents as if they need confirmation that yes, they really can take one. Those little moments last only seconds, yet somehow they become some of my favorite memories of the season.

The last few years have changed the way I see days like this. Before Tim's journey with PNES, holidays naturally came and went. We enjoyed them, of course, but I don't know that I fully appreciated how precious ordinary traditions really are. When life suddenly changes, you begin looking at familiar moments through different eyes. You stop taking for granted the things you once assumed would always be there. A quiet evening together, a familiar tradition, or the simple joy of greeting children at the front door becomes something much deeper than it once was.

One of the things this journey has taught me is that joy doesn't always arrive in grand moments. More often, it quietly slips into our lives disguised as something wonderfully ordinary. It's found in the laughter of a child proudly showing off a homemade costume. It's hearing parents encourage a shy little one to say "Trick or Treat." It's watching neighbors wave as they walk down the street. It's seeing Tim smile as another family walks up the sidewalk, knowing exactly how much he loves this night. Those moments don't solve life's biggest problems, but for a little while they remind us that goodness is still all around us.

I think children have a way of teaching us something we've forgotten as adults. They don't spend Halloween worrying about tomorrow's schedule or next month's bills. They aren't thinking about everything waiting for them back at home. They're completely absorbed in the moment. Every decorated yard is an adventure. Every porch light is an invitation. Every piece of candy is a treasure. Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, many of us lose that ability to be fully present. We become so focused on what comes next that we miss the simple joy standing right in front of us.

As I've grown older, I've become convinced that traditions matter more than we sometimes realize. They become the threads that quietly stitch our lives together. Years from now, I probably won't remember every television show we watched or every errand we ran in October. But I have a feeling I'll remember Tim sitting by the door with a bowl full of big candy bars, waiting for the first little knock. I'll remember hearing him laugh at a clever costume or seeing the delight on a child's face when they realized they had just received a full-sized candy bar. Those are the memories that stay with us because they remind us of who we were together.

I've also learned that there is something healing about protecting joy, especially after walking through difficult seasons. It would have been easy to let illness, appointments, and endless responsibilities quietly steal away the traditions we loved. There were certainly years when everything felt heavier than we ever imagined it could. Yet somehow Halloween remained one of those little bright spots on the calendar. It gave us permission to laugh, to celebrate, and to enjoy something beautifully uncomplicated. For one evening, life wasn't about diagnoses, paperwork, or uncertainty. It was about children dressed as superheroes believing the world was filled with magic.

Perhaps that's one of God's sweetest gifts. He doesn't ask us to wait until every problem is solved before we experience joy. He places little moments of delight right in the middle of difficult seasons, reminding us that hope and hardship can exist side by side. I've seen that truth over and over again these past few years. Some of our hardest days have also contained unexpected moments of beauty—a sunset that stopped me in my tracks, a story Tim finished writing, a song we created together, or an evening spent handing candy to excited children who had no idea they were bringing just as much happiness to us as we were to them.

So once again, we'll fill the bowl with the big candy bars. We'll listen for the doorbell. We'll admire every costume, laugh with the little ones, and enjoy watching another generation make memories they'll probably remember long after they've outgrown trick-or-treating. And somewhere in the middle of all that laughter and excitement, I'll quietly thank God for another Halloween together.

Because these days, I understand something I didn't always know.

The magic of Halloween was never really about the candy.

It was always about the joy of sharing a little kindness, opening your door, and being reminded that even after life's hardest seasons, there is still so much goodness worth celebrating.