Before Christmas, Lebanon prepares

Traffic thickens first. Streets that are usually congested become immovable. Every errand feels urgent, every stop unavoidable. Grocery stores overflow with carts stacked too high, people moving with purpose and impatience, checking lists written and rewritten. There is no such thing as “just grabbing one thing.” Someone always remembers something else at the last minute. Inside these supermarkets, the tension is oddly collective. People are tired, rushed, and yet strangely synchronized. Everyone is preparing for the same thing, even if no one says it out loud.

Kitchens and Chaos

Homes begin to shift. Furniture is moved to make space for people who will soon arrive. Extra chairs appear from storage, borrowed from neighbors, or carried up flights of stairs without complaint. Kitchens become command centers. Food is planned in quantities that only make sense in Lebanon, enough to feed extended family, unexpected guests, and the possibility that someone will show up with nothing but appetite.

At the same time, churches are rehearsing. Choirs practice hymns that have not changed in decades. Children rehearse Nativity plays, some distracted, some serious beyond their years. Churches smell faintly of incense and wax, and the anticipation of Midnight Mass settles in slowly. Even those who will arrive late, as they always do, know the carols by heart.

There is tension, too, the kind that only families can create. Old disagreements resurface in softer forms. Schedules clash. Expectations hang unspoken. Someone is always doing more than they want to, and someone else is doing less than they should. Yet no one opts out. The week demands participation.

Last-minute shopping fills the gaps between obligations. Gifts are bought quickly, sometimes carelessly, sometimes with surprising thought. The point is less perfection than presence, something to hand over, something to acknowledge the moment.

 

Why the chaos matters

And yet, beneath the exhaustion, there is charm. In the disorder, there is meaning. Preparation becomes a language of care. The stress it is inherited. This is how Christmas has always been done, through effort, noise, compromise, and shared anticipation.

The week before Christmas in Lebanon is when the country briefly aligns. Regardless of belief, background, or mood, people are oriented toward the same moment. They are tired, yes, but also gathering. By the time Christmas Eve arrives, everyone is already spent. The table is set, the house is full, the traffic finally eases. Christmas, in Lebanon, is not just a day. It is everything that happens before it.

In Lebanon, Christmas does not begin on December 25. It begins in the days before, in the escalation of chaos, in the sense that something is coming and must be prepared for. The week before Christmas is a ritual in itself.