**Special thanks to Mariam Sengam and Sandra Samy for providing insight for this piece, the story is based on their and their families' Christmas, so go with them a Merry Christmas!**
The cold January air seeps through the shutters as I stir awake. Today isn’t just any day — it’s Coptic Christmas. The first thing I notice is the stillness, a kind of calm that feels sacred as if the entire world is holding its breath in reverence for this day.
The morning sun filters through the lace curtains, and I stretch lazily before the excitement catches up with me. I smile, thinking about everything ahead: church, family, laughter, and food. So much food.
The Morning Ritual
I sip my warm drink, rich with milk, savouring the quiet moment before the day unfolds. The rich aroma mingles with the faint scent of chocolate, a treat I allow myself every Christmas morning. It’s a small ritual, but it feels special, grounding. Today, like every Coptic Orthodox Christian in Egypt, I will celebrate the birth of Christ in a way that’s both deeply spiritual and joyously communal.
We’ve been fasting for 43 days leading up to today — abstaining from animal products and focusing on prayer, reflection, and simplicity. It’s not just about food; it’s about cleansing the heart and soul, preparing a place for the birth of hope.
The fridge is already packed with everything we need for the feast later. My family has a quirky tradition of making macaroni béchamel, even though it isn’t a typical Christmas dish. Nobody knows why or how it started, but it wouldn’t be Christmas without it.
Church: The Heart of Christmas
By mid-morning, I’m ready. Dressed in my holiday clothes, carefully chosen weeks in advance, I feel both festive and reverent. My siblings and I pile into the car, heading to our church, an ancient sanctuary with high-domed ceilings and icons that seem to glow with an inner light.
The service is my favourite part of the day. The prayers, the incense curling upward like whispered hopes, the hymns that have been sung for centuries — it all feels timeless. I spot faces I haven’t seen in months, perhaps even a year. “Merry Christmas!” we greet each other in Arabic, exchanging warm smiles and handshakes. Cameras flash as families take photos, capturing memories that will linger long after today.
As we sing the final hymn, my heart feels full. Christmas, to me, is proof of God’s unyielding love, a reminder that every ending carries the promise of a new beginning.
Family Feast and Warmth
After church, we head home to prepare for the feast. It’s a scene of organized chaos: my mother checking the oven every five minutes, my cousins arranging plates, and everyone sneaking a bite of something before it’s officially served.
There’s no “traditional” dish for Coptic Christmas, but our table is always a glorious mix of family favourites. Beyond the béchamel, there’s roasted chicken, rice with nuts and raisins, fresh salads, and more desserts than we could ever finish in one sitting.
By the time the food is ready, laughter fills the room. My nieces and nephews dart between the legs of adults, their giggles blending into the festive chatter. We sit together, sharing stories, teasing each other, and giving thanks for the simple joy of being in the same room.
A Conversation Across Traditions
As the evening quiets down, I pick up my phone and call my Protestant friend. We’ve had this tradition for years now — catching up after our respective Christmases. She celebrates on December 25th, but that doesn’t make today feel any less connected.
“Hey! Merry Christmas!” I say, grinning into the phone.
“Merry Christmas to you, finally!” she replies, her voice warm and teasing. “How was your day? Did you have your famous macaroni béchamel?”
I laugh. “Of course. What about you? Fatta or something more elaborate?”
“Fatta, definitely. But we also had turkey this year, and my mom went all out with cookies. I’m still recovering.”
“Cookies sound like a dream,” I say, imagining her bustling family kitchen. “You know, we don’t really have Christmas cookies as a tradition, but I think we make up for it with desserts at the feast.”
“And church?” she asks. “We played our Mass on TV this year and then had dinner after. Did you go in person?”
“Oh yes,” I say, my voice softening. “The church was packed. It’s always my favourite part — the prayers, the incense, seeing people I haven’t seen in forever.”
“Same here,” she agrees. “The sermons always feel extra special on Christmas. And it’s just so nice to have everyone together, isn’t it? It’s not even about the date, really. It’s the meaning of it all.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Exactly. We’re all celebrating the same thing in the end. Different days, but the same joy, the same hope.”
Her voice brightens. “You know, maybe next year we should celebrate together. December 25th and January 7th. Twice the cookies, twice the béchamel.”
I laugh again, the warmth of her suggestion settling over me like a blanket. “Deal. Twice the joy, too.”
As I hang up, I think about what they said. In Egypt, whether we’re Coptic, Protestant, or Catholic, Christmas isn’t just a date on the calendar. It’s a celebration of love, faith, and community. Even when we celebrate differently, the heart of it all remains the same. We gather. We give thanks. We hold onto hope.
A Quiet Ending
The day winds down as I find myself back in my room, journal in hand. I write about my favourite moments: the peaceful prayers at church, the hearty laughter over béchamel, and the warmth of my friend’s voice on the other end of the line.
Christmas is more than a holiday; it’s a feeling. It’s about coming together, sharing joy, and finding hope in a world that often feels too heavy.
For me, Coptic Christmas is a reminder that no matter the challenges we face, there’s always a chance to begin again. A chance to love deeper, laugh harder, and hold onto the ones who matter most.
As I close my journal and switch off the lamp, I think about the morning to come. My heart feels lighter, fuller, ready for whatever this new year might bring. Because if there’s one thing today has taught me, it’s this: God’s love shines brightest in the simplest of moments — in prayer, in family, and in the shared joy of traditions that bring us all together.
