On the impossibility of Skipping Christmas

An existentialist reading of John Grisham’s holiday story

In John Grisham’s Skipping Christmas, we encounter what seems at first a lighthearted holiday farce: Luther and Nora Krank’s comic rebellion against the season’s pressures. Tired of the frenetic decorating, the obligatory parties, and the commercial frenzy, the Kranks hatch a plan to do the unthinkable in their closely-knit suburban community – they will skip Christmas entirely. With their only daughter Blair away on a Peace Corps assignment in Peru, they see a rare opportunity. Instead of the usual yuletide marathon of buying and bedecking, they book a Caribbean cruise. For once, they’ll trade snowmen and Santa hats for sun-soaked beaches and piña coladas, attempting a bold escape from what Luther views as the hubbub of holiday obligation. It’s a decision made half in jest and half in earnest, born of exhaustion with the mandatory cheer that December demands. Grisham narrates their resolve with a curmudgeonly wit – Luther tallying up last year’s $6,000+ Christmas bill, aghast at how little they have to show for it, and Nora tentatively agreeing to this grand holiday boycott. Their pact is sealed with a mix of giddy trepidation and jaded justification: after all, what is Christmas without family at home? A quieter, simpler 10-day cruise seems not only harmless but healing. For a moment, reading of their plan, one can’t help but root for the Kranks’ audacity. In a world of inflatable reindeer and forced smiles, who hasn’t fantasized about sailing away from it all?

Yet, as the Kranks soon discover, skipping Christmas is easier said than done. The moment their neighbors get wind of Luther and Nora’s intended defection from holiday norms, a fierce backlash ensues. Hemlock Street, ordinarily a friendly suburb festooned with lights, becomes a battleground of conformity versus individual choice. The Kranks’ modest rebellion – simply not putting up decorations or buying a tree – is met with passive-aggressive dismay and outright peer pressure. Vic Frohmeyer, the neighborhood’s self-appointed holiday watchdog, rallies the block into action. One morning the Kranks step outside to find an army of frosty-faced carolers serenading (or rather, besieging) their lawn, belting out Christmas songs as if music might bludgeon them into compliance. Children build an eerie snowman “Frosty” effigy on their lawn and chant for the Kranks to join in the decorating contest. Phone calls come at all hours, cajoling and then demanding they “decorate their house!” Picket signs sprout on their sidewalk imploring them not to ruin the street’s chance at the coveted “best-decorated block” prize. Even local institutions turn on them: the Boy Scouts are scandalized that the Kranks won’t buy a tree this year; the police and firemen, who fundraise with calendars and fruitcakes, treat their refusal as a personal affront. Neighbors who once chatted over fences now glare with open hostility at the dark, undecorated Krank house. In Grisham’s comedic telling, these scenes provoke laughter at the overzealousness of holiday devotees. But beneath the humor lies a palpable pressure – a demand for conformity so intense it’s absurd. The Kranks find themselves ostracized for opting out, labeled practically un-American for daring not to celebrate Christmas in the prescribed way. Their quiet act of non-participation has made them outcasts in their own community.

As Christmas Eve dawns, Luther and Nora stand firm (if nervously) amid the mounting disapproval. Their flight to the Caribbean leaves the next morning; freedom is so close they can taste the salt air. They’ve endured the neighborhood’s scorn and even chuckled privately at the ridiculous lengths to which people go to enforce holiday cheer. It appears they might actually succeed in their anti-Christmas escapade. But then, with cruelly perfect timing, the phone rings. It’s their daughter Blair calling from Miami – surprise – she’s coming home for Christmas after all. Not only that, she’s bringing her new fiancé to introduce him to her family and the beloved Kranks’ Christmas traditions she’s been bragging about. In an instant, Luther and Nora’s dream of a peaceful island retreat crashes down. Nora’s maternal instincts and social reflexes kick in; when Blair innocently asks if they’re having their usual annual Christmas Eve party, Nora’s voice betrays not a hint of the truth. “Yes, of course we are!” she exclaims, her heart pounding with panic even as the words leave her lips. Luther’s face falls; all he can manage is a silent, incredulous stare as his carefully rationalized plans evaporate. In a matter of seconds, the Kranks’ resolute stance against Christmas buckles under the weight of a single expectation – their daughter’s.

What follows is pure comic mayhem on the surface, but one can’t miss the bitter irony underneath. With only a few hours’ notice, the Kranks must now conjure Christmas from thin air. Luther, who gleefully didn’t bother to buy a tree, scrambles to find one on Christmas Eve (an impossible quest as every lot is sold out, forcing him into farcical extremes like stealing a neighbor’s discarded spruce). Nora races to put up decorations they swore they wouldn’t need, frantically dusting off ornaments and lights from storage. Neighbors who moments ago were vilifying them suddenly become their saviors – albeit with a touch of smug satisfaction – as they band together to help the hapless couple restore the normal order. A mob of residents strings lights on the Kranks’ gutters, finds a spare tree, sets up the giant Frosty on their roof, and even rustles up food for the once-cancelled party. In the chaotic rush, Luther manages to injure himself (dangling absurdly from the roof with Frosty’s electric cord around his leg until rescued). The police, who earlier frowned at the Kranks’ lack of community spirit, now grandly escort Blair and her fiancé from the airport in a festive convoy, sirens blazing like ersatz sleigh bells, so that the returning daughter sees every house on Hemlock Street – including her own – aglow and joyful. It’s as if the entire neighborhood conspires to conceal the Kranks’ attempted mutiny, swiftly erasing every sign of it. And it works: Blair arrives to a picture-perfect Christmas, none the wiser that her parents nearly escaped this tableau. The party that night is a roaring success by conventional standards – laughter, carols, neighbors shoulder-to-shoulder raising eggnog toasts. Luther and Nora, exhausted and dazed, are swept up into the very celebration they swore off, now seemingly grateful captives of the holiday spirit.

Most readers likely breathe a sigh of relief at this ending. Grisham delivers all the comforting notes of a holiday tale: estranged community members coming together, family reunited, generosity triumphing. We’re meant to see Luther’s transformation from Scrooge-like curmudgeon to benevolent neighbor as the satisfying moral arc. After all, he even gives away the non-refundable cruise tickets to an elderly neighbor – Walt Scheel and his cancer-stricken wife – in a final act of selflessness on Christmas morn. It’s a scene that checks every box: redemption, community, self-sacrifice. Many close the book smiling, thinking the Kranks learned the true meaning of Christmas, which (as every pop-culture holiday story insists) lies in togetherness and altruism rather than personal indulgence. On the surface, Grisham seems to be affirming that no matter how harebrained or stingy a scheme may start, the warmth of family and neighbors can set things right in the end. Luther’s icy resolve melts; Nora’s initial misgivings about skipping the holiday prove justified; and their earlier defiance is gently chastened as foolishness. It reads, in one sense, as a celebration of community and tradition prevailing over individual whim.

But let’s pause and consider this narrative from another angle. Step back from the twinkling lights and triumphant carols, and a different message glimmers in the story – one perhaps not intentionally woven, but revealed in the very fabric of the Kranks’ experience. Under the wry comedy lies a piercing truth about societal expectations: we are bound, often uncomfortably, to the obligations and expectations of others. In fact, one might argue we have misread Grisham’s intention or at least the novel’s ultimate implications. Instead of a simple parable championing holiday spirit, Skipping Christmas can be seen as an inadvertent cautionary tale about the near impossibility of escaping collective norms. The comedic resolution, rather than being purely heartwarming, hints at a sobering reality: even our personal choices are not made in a vacuum; the world around us may refuse to let us stray too far from its scripts.

Throughout the story, every effort Luther and Nora make to assert their independence is met with resistance bordering on tyranny – all disguised as good cheer and neighborly concern. Their initially innocent decision to abstain from Christmas exposes the startling truth that conformity is often enforced by those around us with almost moral fervor. The neighbors’ outrage isn’t because the Kranks harmed anyone; it’s because they dared to be different. By merely saying “no, thanks” to a community ritual, the Kranks highlight how ritual can shift from joyous choice to oppressive requirement. Hemlock Street’s reaction is practically tribal: the Kranks have threatened a cherished collective value, and the tribe mobilizes to correct or crush the deviance. This undercurrent in the novel lays bare an uncomfortable sentiment: in our communities (be it a small neighborhood or society at large), there is immense pressure to play along, to do what is expected, lest you become an outsider. We often praise traditions as the glue that binds us, but here we see the binding can feel more like shackles to those who don’t fit the mold.

Grisham’s story, intentionally or not, illuminates the tension between individual freedom and social expectation. Luther Krank’s quixotic quest to reclaim Christmas on his own terms – to say that he owes nothing to December but what he chooses – is met with something akin to forceful correction by his peers. And when even his beloved daughter unwittingly joins the chorus of expectation, the fight is effectively over. The message one might draw is not “Community is wonderful” (though the narrative overtly delivers that), but rather “Resistance is futile.” The Kranks tried to swim against the current and were swiftly swept back to shore by a tidal wave of tradition. In this reading, Skipping Christmas becomes a commentary on how frighteningly easy it is to be pulled back into line by the combined weight of others’ desires and judgments. The final image of Luther, bruised and emotionally beaten, handing away his cruise tickets – the very symbol of his attempted freedom – to console a neighbor is a poignant one. On the one hand, it’s charity and kindness; on the other, it’s Luther’s surrender. He gives away his escape hatch, accepting that his fate is to endure the same Christmas he once tried to avoid. It’s a bittersweet capitulation: touching in its generosity, yet heavy with the sense that his personal choice never really stood a chance.

If we peer at the Kranks’ saga through an existentialist lens, this tale of a canceled Caribbean Christmas becomes more than just slapstick comedy – it transforms into a small tragedy of the human condition. Existentialist thought prizes individual freedom, authenticity, and the courage to create one’s own meaning in a world that often feels saturated with prescribed narratives. Luther’s impulse to skip Christmas was, in essence, an existential act of rebellion: he sought authenticity. Rather than mindlessly reenacting the role of the jolly neighbor with the gaudy decorations – a role he found suddenly hollow without his daughter – he attempted to redefine what the holiday would mean for him and Nora. In that moment, Luther assumed the stance of what Sartre or Camus might call the individual asserting meaning in an absurd world. Why string up lights or endure the chaos if it brings no joy or purpose to them this year? Why not chase a different kind of happiness, one born of their own choice rather than tradition’s tempo? His plan was a declaration: our value this Christmas will be rest, intimacy, adventure – not shopping and ornamentation. It was personal meaning over collective meaning.

But true freedom, as existentialists often lament, is a frighteningly heavy burden. The Kranks face the daunting reality that living authentically – stepping off the well-trodden path – may isolate you from others. The formidable backlash of their community is the price exacted for daring to choose differently. Here, we witness an almost textbook case of what existential philosophers call living in “bad faith” versus embracing authenticity. Initially, Luther refuses to live in bad faith; he won’t go through the motions just because that is what one does at Christmas. He rejects the script that society handed him, searching for a self-determined path. However, by the end, overwhelmed by external pressure, he relinquishes that authenticity. In existential terms, he falls into bad faith – telling himself he “has no choice” but to comply, performing the expected role as everyone nods approvingly. The neighbors, the charities, even his own daughter’s expectations become the “They” that Heidegger described: the amorphous social force dictating what is acceptable. And the Kranks, unable to withstand the loneliness of standing apart, ultimately succumb to the comfort of belonging at the cost of their individual resolve.

What’s particularly illuminating is how emotionally conflicted this succumbing feels, even amid the ostensibly happy ending. The narrative wraps it in joy – Luther and Nora dancing at their resurrected party, their daughter beaming – yet one senses Luther’s inner turmoil. Grisham’s prose (under its comedic sheen) leaves room for Luther’s subtle realization that all the forces he raged against won in the end. That moment when he sits quietly by the window, after the party winds down, watching the snow settle on the houses, you can almost imagine him reflecting: had anything truly changed? He tried to break free from the “frenzy”, and here it is around him again, as if his revolt was a mere dream. This is the existential quandary at its core – the pull between one’s own will and the weight of others’ wills. Skipping Christmas inadvertently asks, in the end, how much of our lives do we really own, and how much do we simply rent from tradition and expectation?

With that question in mind, consider what an ideal Christmas story might look like for an existential hero. It would not be one that reinforces “everyone else’s idea of a perfect holiday,” but one that validates personal choice and freedom. Imagine, for a moment, a different ending for the Kranks. Not a comedic reversal, not a surrender to the predictable warmth of community approval – but something quieter, braver, and perhaps, in its own way, profoundly hopeful. In this alternate denouement, Luther and Nora gently inform their surprised daughter that they love her dearly, but this year will indeed be different – they have made plans, plans that matter to them. They invite her to join in their adventure or to celebrate in her own way, but they do not apologize for carving out a Christmas on their terms. There might be hurt feelings or confusion at first, but in time Blair might understand that her parents, as individuals, have needs and longings beyond the roles of Mom and Dad hosting a party. And so, on Christmas morning, instead of frantically stirring eggnog and roasting a last-minute turkey, Luther and Nora Krank find themselves aboard a gently rocking cruise ship on the Caribbean Sea.

Picture them on the deck at sunrise: the sky a tender pink, the air warm with salt and possibility. Nora’s hand rests in Luther’s and there’s a quiet smile playing on her lips – not the strained smile of forced merriment at a neighborhood gathering, but the relaxed contentment of someone who has stepped out of the noise and found a bit of peace. Luther breathes in, deeply, freely, the tropical breeze filling his lungs as he realizes this is Christmas Day. There are no carolers at his door, no garish lights – only the soft crash of waves against the hull and perhaps the distant cry of a seabird. In that simplicity, he discovers a new kind of holiday spirit: one that isn’t dictated by ritual or expectation, but by authentic desire. Maybe he raises a toast with Nora – not to defying anyone or proving a point, but simply to the joy of reclaiming their time and celebrating on their own terms.

This ending would not have the loud fanfare of a community chorus or a police escort with flashing lights. Its miracle would be quieter: the Kranks, still together, still in love, enjoying the rare and precious gift of personal freedom. No one applauds them for it; no one needs to. In this version, Christmas isn’t “saved” – because it was never lost. It was whatever they chose it to be: a day like any other, made special only by the meaning they gave it. Such a conclusion might not satisfy those craving the sugary rush of a conventional Christmas tale. It lacks the snow and the big family tableau, the scene of neighbors crowding warmly into the living room. Instead, it offers something else – a reaffirmation that individuals can choose their path, even amid the collective roar of tradition. It suggests that sometimes the most profound validation comes not from conforming to expectations, but from quietly, steadfastly being true to oneself.

In reality, of course, the Kranks didn’t board that plane. Their story ended nestled back in the familiar bosom of community, for better or worse. But reflecting on the tale with an existential sensibility, one finds that it raises a thought-provoking paradox: Is the happiest ending necessarily the most authentic one? Grisham’s novel ostensibly concludes with joy because the Kranks rejoin the fold. Yet the lingering resonance – the part that stays with a reader like a faint bittersweet aftertaste – is that they were on the brink of a very different kind of happiness, one born from self-determination. In a perfect world, perhaps Luther and Nora could have had both – their daughter’s love and understanding, and the freedom of that long-dreamed cruise. Life, however, often demands choices that please others at the expense of our own plans.

And so, the tale of the Kranks leaves us with a gentle, poignant lesson, one that cuts deeper than the tinsel-bright surface might suggest. We laugh at their antics, we sympathize with their plight, and ultimately we accept their capitulation as a necessity – because given the circumstances, what else could they do? But maybe, just maybe, Skipping Christmas invites us to question those very circumstances. It challenges us, in its roundabout witty way, to ask why opting out was ever seen as an affront in the first place. Why do we feel so threatened when someone chooses a path different from our own, especially in something as personal as how to spend a holiday? The Kranks’ story implies that the strongest chains are often the invisible ones of expectation, forged link by link through years of “this is just how things are done.”

In the final analysis, John Grisham’s little holiday comedy carries an unexpected weight. It reminds us that our lives are often entangled in each other’s expectations, and extricating oneself, even for a short while, can be an ordeal. Perhaps Grisham intended nothing more than to amuse, to spin a silly yarn about skipping one Christmas. But within that yarn, like a bright thread, is the idea that freedom can be both alluring and frightening – and that society will always have its say. The Kranks tried to escape Christmas, and in doing so, revealed how inescapable our social bonds really are.

One closes the book smiling at the happy ending, yes, but also pondering: who was right – the spirited neighbors who imposed their will out of genuine (if overbearing) love of tradition, or the Kranks, who for a moment asserted the radical notion that they didn’t have to do what was expected of them? There is no easy answer. Yet an existential reading tips the sympathy towards the latter. It mourns, quietly, the freedom they almost had and didn’t, in the end, dare to keep. It suggests that the most poignant Christmas story is not the one where everything goes back to normal, but the one where two people find the courage to shape their own normal.

In that sense, the ideal Christmas story lurking in Skipping Christmas’ shadows is a brave little fable of liberation: Luther and Nora Krank, tickets in hand, truly skipping Christmas and discovering that the world doesn’t end when they do. Such a story would not condemn community or family – it would simply affirm that love and understanding can encompass even the choice to celebrate differently. It would trust that Blair, the loving daughter, could come home to find her parents gone and still feel their love in the choices they made for themselves, perhaps even respect them for it. It would show neighbors waving goodbye without resentment, even if they don’t fully understand. In that world, the Kranks depart, and maybe it’s a quieter Christmas on Hemlock Street that year, but life goes on. The sun still rises on December 25th, the neighbors still have their own celebrations, and Luther and Nora create a new memory together under a tropical sky.

Such an ending is not what Grisham gave us, but it lingers as an exquisite “what if.” It speaks to the heart of existential thought: that in choosing our own path, we seize responsibility for our life’s meaning. The Kranks’ cruise would have been more than a vacation – it would have been a statement that their Christmas belongs to them. And isn’t that, in a way, a beautiful thought? That even amid the most culturally over-scripted time of year, one might be free to say, “This is how I will find my joy.”

Ultimately, Skipping Christmas resonates because it captures a truth we all feel at times. We cherish our communities and traditions, yes, but we also sometimes feel stifled by them. Grisham deftly satirizes the pressure to conform while simultaneously succumbing to a conventional resolution – a duality that leaves a reflective reader with mixed feelings. Perhaps the true message sits between the lines: we yearn for freedom, yet we fear the loneliness it can bring; we crave belonging, yet we chafe at the obligations it carries. The Kranks’ aborted rebellion throws into relief this delicate balance in our own lives.

As the imaginary snow globe of Hemlock Street settles, one cannot help but feel a pang of empathy for Luther and Nora’s lost Caribbean Christmas. It’s a poignant reminder that, for all our jokes about dodging the in-laws or skipping the stressful parts of the holidays, most of us ultimately comply – out of love, out of duty, out of habit. We smile, we go along, and it is often good. But deep down, we know that the choice mattered. The Kranks had a glimpse of a life unburdened by expectation, and though they didn’t grasp it fully, that glimpse is not lost on us. It suggests a profoundly personal question especially relevant during the holidays: What do I want this time of year to be, and do I have the courage to make it so?

In the end, Skipping Christmas leaves us with a curious kind of hope. Not the typical sugar-cookie-sweet hope of most Christmas tales, but a subtler hope that maybe one day we can all find a balance between the warmth of tradition and the breath of freedom. It’s the hope that next time we feel the urge to do something differently – to honor our own truth, even if it disappoints others – we’ll remember Luther Krank standing on the brink of that airplane gangway. We’ll remember that the world almost made him forget that his Christmas belonged to him. And perhaps we’ll take a step forward on our own path, carrying with us the understanding that the best holiday, the best life, is one defined not by obligation, but by authentic choice.

In that final view, the Kranks’ story is more than a holiday comedy – it’s a gentle nudge to cherish our loved ones and our freedom, and to realize that true happiness might just be, like a bright star on a winter’s night, something we must define for ourselves.