Every Christmas, before the wrapping paper hits the floor or the leftovers are packed away, we gather around a table and open a box. Inside isn’t a game with rules or a project with instructions—just hundreds (sometimes thousands) of oddly shaped pieces waiting to become something meaningful. It’s our family puzzle, and it’s one of our favorite traditions.
We know that during the holidays we’re going to be spending time together. Real time. The kind where phones are set aside, schedules loosen their grip, and there’s nowhere else we need to be. So each year, we choose a puzzle that reflects something important to us. A shared memory. A place we love. A moment we don’t want to forget.
This year’s choice was easy. We went to Hawaii in June, and the trip still lives vividly in all of us—the colors, the warmth, the ocean that somehow felt both endless and intimate. Of course our Christmas puzzle had a Hawaiian theme. As we poured the pieces onto the table, it felt a little like pouring that trip back into our winter break, sunshine and all.
What follows is always the same and always different.
There’s the initial optimism, when we all believe this puzzle won’t be that hard. Then comes the frustration—edge pieces that don’t quite fit, sky pieces that all look exactly the same, moments when someone is convinced a piece belongs somewhere only to be proven wrong (again). But mixed in with that frustration are the small wins. Finding the perfect piece. Completing a tiny section. Realizing that, slowly, the picture is coming together.
As we work, we learn about each other in quiet, unexpected ways. Who sorts by color. Who hunts for shapes. Who insists on finishing one small section before moving on. Our thought processes and idiosyncrasies reveal themselves piece by piece. There’s laughter, a little groaning, and the occasional dramatic declaration that the puzzle is “impossible.”
And then there’s the end.
When the puzzle is nearly complete, the energy in the room changes. Everyone wants the honor of placing the last piece. We hover. We negotiate. Sometimes we argue. Over the years, this has escalated into full-on tradition—there have absolutely been times when one of us has secretly hidden a piece, just to extend the moment or claim the final victory. No regrets.
When the last piece finally clicks into place, we all pause. We marvel at it. Not just at the image itself, but at the fact that we did this together. That something chaotic and fragmented became whole through shared effort, patience, and time.
Then Mom does what she always does. She frames it.
The finished puzzle goes up in the loft or the media room, joining the others from years past. Each one is a snapshot of a season in our lives, a memory preserved not just in a photo, but in hours spent side by side.
This is something we do every winter break, but it doesn’t have to be tied to Christmas or even to winter. You could do it any time. What matters isn’t the puzzle—it’s the intention. Choosing to slow down. Choosing to be together. Choosing something that means something to all of you.
For us, it’s a box of pieces, a shared table, and a tradition that reminds us that being together—frustration, small wins, and all—is the best picture we could ever make.
