“This is a clear violation of the rules,” I said as sternly as my festive Christmas Eve mood would allow.

“I am aware of that,” Brent replied with eyes shining.

Brent was waiting for his new apartment to be ready, so he was bunking in with us. Having young people in the house again was a joy, especially for the holidays. But I am a militant Christmas traditionalist.

We do not open packages on Christmas Eve. Gifts are for the morning. But Brent was insistent, so I complied. When the last of the wrapping paper fell away, I gazed at a large tub of synthetic fiber balls. I looked up at Brent in confusion, which didn’t last long because he popped the top off the tub, grabbed a snowy white ball, and bounced it off my forehead.

“Snowball fight!” Someone yelled that, but my memory of who was obliterated by the silliness that followed.

Our daughter, Angie, upended the tub and the balls spilled across the floor. A mad scramble ensued as we each grabbed as much ammunition as we could hold and scattered throughout the first floor. While Bing Crosby sang of peace on earth, we attempted to pummel each other with snowballs.

Our home is all angles and corners, perfect for domestic warfare, so each of us captured a defensible position and began to launch snowballs. Brent popped out of the kitchen and rocketed one at me. I ducked, and the sphere sheared an ornament off the tree. Dropping to the floor, I glanced at lei-wearing Santa, a souvenir from our Hawaii trip. He was unscathed.

“Sorry!” Brent’s voice came from the kitchen.

“No worries,” I answered as I army-crawled to the dining room. “He’s plastic!”

My beloved husband, the only member of our squad with law enforcement experience, wisely took shelter in the stairwell, where he could fire from a protected position. For half an hour, we waged war throughout the house, ambushing each other with rapid fire. Angie deflected one of my shots and it glided over the dining table, nicking a lit candle. The action paused while Ang inspected the snowball.

“Just singed,” she announced.

“Rub dirt on it and put him back in,” her father barked.

It wasn’t exactly the Christmas Truce of 1914, but the pause gave us a chance to grab more of the bleached missiles.

The cats had fled the room as soon as the battle broke out, but I did see a few whiskers peeking around the bedroom door like a radar antenna.

“Don’t hit the cats!” I yelled as I dove behind the recliner under a barrage from my husband.

The snowballs were amazingly resilient, no matter what they collided with. Despite the fact that all our best china and crystal were in use, nothing ended up broken, which I consider a Christmas miracle. My heart skipped a beat when a delicate cordial glass took a glancing blow and rocked back before righting itself. Dessert wine was still on the menu—hooray!

Above the noise of running, jumping, falling, yelling, and the occasional curse word, I heard an unexpected but familiar sound. The doorbell. I was in the stairwell, nearest to the door, and I belly-flopped into the hallway and crawled to it, incoming shots going wide. I got on my knees to reach the doorknob, a risky move that exposed me to a punishing volley of snowballs. I yanked on the knob and fell back into the hallway as the door swung open.

At the same time, my champagne-soaked brain was dredging up a conversation I would find pertinent at this exact moment.

Chatting with our friend Connie days before Christmas, I had said, “If you all have time on Christmas Eve, stop up and see our luminaries.”

And there they were—the entire family bedecked in their holiday finery—the ladies with perfect hair and makeup, the men dashing in suits. Christmas Eve service had just concluded at their church, and they, bless their hearts, had made a point to visit. I blinked the sweat out of my eyes, feeling deeply honored and horrifically embarrassed simultaneously. They looked like the cast of a Hallmark movie. We looked like deserters from the other side.

A whizzing snowball made Connie gasp with surprise and brought me back to the moment. “Cease fire! Cease fire!” I yelled. “Civilians on the field!”

It is a credit to our guests that they were unfazed by the sight of us sprawled all over the house, panting and disheveled, with ornaments, candles, and a couple of presents toppled—all like the medics hadn’t shown up yet. The combatants emerged and, amid shirt tucking and hair shake-outs, greeted our visitors with yuletide cheer. It was absurdly warm, and we were able to go out on the deck and have our wine, surrounded by the lights we had strung on the railings and the really good ones God put in a sparkling sky.

Christmas is a time of joy, wherever and however you can find it. Sometimes it’s an eternal carol sung in a candlelit church. Sometimes it’s in a tub of fake snowballs. We lost Connie to cancer not long after that holiday, and I treasure the memory of her total acceptance of our weirdness. While being the personification of grace and dignity, Connie knew how to find joy.

When our friends went on their way, the four of us collapsed in various chairs and declared the night the “best Christmas Eve ever.” The snowballs were stashed away. I’m the only one who knows where. Will they make another appearance? Didn’t I tell you? Angie has a son of her own now.

And Grandma has a plan.