It’s been a loud year in Colorado.
If you spend any time watching the headlines, you’d think our entire state is one big screaming match about money, power, and whose “vision” deserves to run your life. We’ve had the usual tug-of-war over energy, housing, and transportation. We’ve argued about water, growth, crime, and the cost of just existing. Up at the Capitol, the reflex answer still seems to be: more rules, more control, more Denver.
What Colorado needs is more Weld County.
But here’s the thing I keep coming back to: if you zoom in instead of out, a different Colorado appears. And it looks a lot more like Christmas than cable news.
The Year We Just Lived
From the commissioner’s chair, you get a front row seat to the tug-of-war between state-level “we know better than you” policy and local common sense.
You see families sitting in public meetings because new mandates are affecting their farms, their businesses, their kids’ schools. You hear from small business owners doing the math on energy costs and wondering how much longer they can keep the doors open. You see law enforcement agencies trying to hold the line while the broader culture acts allergic to accountability.
None of that is abstract to me. It’s faces, not talking points.
At the same time, you watch regular people quietly doing what they’ve always done in Weld County: showing up, working hard, and taking care of each other whether anybody writes a story about it or not.
So we end up with this split-screen:
- On one side: noise, blame, fear, and a whole lot of “if you just hand us a little more control, we promise we’ll fix it this time.”
- On the other side: neighbors plowing each other’s driveways, churches delivering groceries, parents teaching kids to say “please,” “thank you,” and “yes sir.”
One of those screens is good at getting attention.
The other one is where actual hope lives.
The Other Colorado
When I’m out around the county, I don’t meet many people who want the government to be their savior. I meet people who just want it to stop making everything harder.
I see the same thing in churches and food banks, in 4-H clubs and youth sports, in small towns and neighborhoods: folks who still believe in showing up for each other.
You see it in the farmer who helps his neighbor get a broken piece of equipment running on a weekend.
You see it in the small business owner who sponsors another team, another fundraiser, another raffle – even when the margins are thin. Or in the red. They do it anyway. Because it’s the right thing to do.
You see it in the grandma who’s quietly raising her grandkids because the world tripped up her daughter. She prays over them while the world screams about everything else.
None of that trends on social media.
But that is Colorado. That is Weld County.
And that’s exactly the sort of place where the real meaning of Christmas makes sense.
Christmas in a Messy World
We like to dress Christmas up with lights, music, and Hallmark-level coziness. Nothing wrong with that – I like a good string of lights as much as the next guy.
But the original Christmas was not tidy.
The Bible says, “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:11). That announcement landed in a world with high taxes, corrupt leadership, foreign occupation, political tension, religious division, and a lot of people just trying to survive.
Sound familiar?
God did not wait for ideal conditions. He sent His Son into a world that looked a lot like ours: messy, divided, and tired. Jesus didn’t show up in a palace surrounded by security and consultants. He showed up in a manger to a young couple who probably felt in way over their heads.
Isaiah calls Him “Wonderful Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:6). Not “the prince of everything’s fine.” The Prince of Peace. Peace that doesn’t depend on the poll numbers, the market, or the latest executive order.
And John puts it like this: “The light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not” (John 1:5). The darkness doesn’t understand the light, and it sure doesn’t overpower it. But it does get more press.
The Christmas story isn’t sentimental wallpaper for a calmer time. It’s God saying: “I see you. I know how bad it is. I’m coming anyway.”
What I See in Weld County
As a commissioner, my days are full of budgets, infrastructure, land use decisions, and about a thousand pages of paperwork no one wants to read. But just beneath that surface, I get to see something encouraging: a county that hasn’t forgotten who it is.
I see pastors, priests, and ministry leaders quietly helping families with rent, utilities, and counseling – no press release, no photo op.
I see teachers and coaches investing in kids even when the system around them feels confused and overcomplicated.
I see law enforcement officers and first responders doing hard jobs with very little margin for error.
I see volunteers who show up early, stay late, and don’t need their name on a plaque.
On paper, this has been a tough year for a lot of people. Costs are up, patience is down, and trust in institutions is running on fumes.
But I keep hearing stories of grace – meals dropped off, hospital visits, last-minute checks written, prayers whispered in living rooms and truck cabs. If you want to see Christmas in Weld County, you don’t have to look far. You just have to look smaller than the headlines.
Gratitude in a Hard Year
So what does all this mean for me?
It means I’m grateful – deeply grateful.
I’m grateful for my family, who absorb the long days, late meetings, and “you won’t believe what happened today” stories. Public service is never just one person’s calling; it’s a family effort, whether they signed up for it or not. (My wife is a saint. I love you, Julie.)
I’m grateful for the people of Weld County, who still believe in hard work, straight talk, and waving at each other in traffic.
I’m grateful for our churches and ministries, who keep preaching hope while everything around us seems to preach fear, anger, or apathy.
And I’m grateful for you – the folks who read The Scott Sheet, send the feedback (both spicy and kind), and care enough to stay engaged. You could tune out. A lot of people do. There are days I want to. The fact that you choose to lean in, ask questions, and hold your leaders accountable gives me hope for where we’re headed.
You don’t have to let me into your inbox, your social feed, or your daily rhythm. But you do, and I don’t take that lightly.
Three Simple Christmas Practices
I’m not big on giving out homework, but I do want to offer a simple Christmas challenge – not a program, not a campaign, just three practices that I honestly think could change the tone of our homes and communities.
1. Read the Christmas story.
Some time over the next few days, open up Luke 2 and read the Christmas account. Read it with your family if you can. Read it around the table, by the tree, in the living room, wherever. Let the words land in the real world you’re living in – not the imaginary one where everyone has it all figured out.
2. Reach out to one person.
Think of one person who might be alone, grieving, or just worn out this season. Call them. Drop by. Invite them over. Bring cookies or coffee or nothing at all—just yourself. Even just a simple text. “How are ya?” We underestimate how far a simple, genuine “How are you really doing?” can go.
3. Thank God for three things.
Take a moment – by yourself or with your family – and thank God out loud for three things you’re grateful for this year. They don’t have to be impressive. In fact, sometimes the most powerful gratitude is for simple things: a steady job, a second chance, a healthy baby, a friendship that stuck, a church that feels like home.
None of these will fix state policy. None of them will balance a budget. But they will change your heart. And changed hearts are where better homes, better communities, and yes, better politics actually begin. If you’re trying to change government, stop looking to government and start looking to God.
Looking Ahead
I don’t know what next year holds. I know we’ll have our share of fights over policy, budgets, and priorities. I know we’ll have more chances to decide whether we’re going to be driven by fear and anger or by conviction and hope.
But I also know this: the same Jesus who stepped into a broken world two thousand years ago is still at work in this one. The same light that shone in the darkness still shines. And no matter how loud the noise gets, it can’t drown out the simple, stubborn truth of Christmas:
God sees us.
God has not abandoned us.
And in the middle of all this mess, He came anyway.
From my family to yours, I pray this Christmas brings you peace that doesn’t make sense on paper, joy that sneaks up on you, and renewed courage to face whatever next year throws at us.
Merry Christmas, Weld County. Merry Christmas, Colorado. And thank you for the honor of serving you, and for walking this road with me.
