These Are the Special Times • 1998 • Celine Dion
It doesn’t begin with spectacle. There are no fireworks or sudden crescendos. Instead, it enters like a gentle memory—familiar, quiet, and full of light. Céline Dion’s These Are the Special Times is not simply a seasonal song. It is a soft-spoken reflection on how presence can be more powerful than any performance.
Originally nestled within a Christmas album, this track has long transcended its holiday framing. Because at its core, it is not about a date on a calendar—it’s about people. The ones we gather with. The ones we dream beside. The ones who make the ordinary moments feel like chapters in a story we’ll keep telling long after they’ve passed.
Céline’s delivery is tender, restrained. She doesn’t reach for power; she reaches for closeness. Her voice moves like candlelight—steady, glowing, never needing to be loud to be felt. It’s as if she’s singing to someone right in front of her, or maybe someone she misses deeply. And in that space, the listener is drawn in—not just to hear, but to remember.
The instrumentation wraps around her voice gently—subtle piano, soft orchestration, a feeling of warmth that rises and falls like breath. Nothing is excessive. Everything serves one purpose: to hold the moment still.
It’s a song built on presence. The kind that doesn’t announce itself, but matters deeply. These aren’t moments defined by noise or grandeur. They’re made of glances, laughter, quiet understandings. They are fleeting, yet unforgettable. The kind you don’t realize are changing you until they’ve already passed.
In the hands of lesser artists, a song like this might drift into background music. But Céline gives it reverence. She doesn’t over-sing it—she listens to it as she sings. She lets it unfold. She lets it breathe.
Behind the song is a team that understands emotional architecture. Diane Warren’s lyrics, though simple, are built to hold memory. David Foster’s production never overreaches—it trusts the melody. And Céline, as always, becomes the soul that ties it all together. The result isn’t just a track—it’s a keepsake.
What’s most striking is that this song doesn’t rely on time to be relevant. Whether it’s December or July, its message remains: that the moments we share—when we’re fully present, when we slow down long enough to look at each other—are the ones that last.
Over the years, listeners have returned to it not for nostalgia, but for grounding. It reminds us that what matters most isn’t always what happens on the biggest days. Sometimes, it’s the quiet nights. The unexpected laughter. The conversation at the kitchen table. The pause between words.
The song gives permission to feel. It gives space for reflection. And it gently holds space for those no longer with us. Because special times don’t just belong to the present—they echo backward and forward. They create a thread of meaning that stretches beyond our calendars.
In concerts, when Céline sings this live, the room often falls silent—not out of awe, but out of recognition. Everyone in the audience has a version of this song in their own life. A memory it awakens. A person it brings back.
There are many songs about love. Many songs about family. Many songs about the holidays. But These Are the Special Times is not just about any of those. It’s about the essence that binds them all: shared time. Time that is acknowledged, not rushed. Time that is felt, not just scheduled.
By the end, the listener isn’t left with a grand finale. They’re left with warmth. With gratitude. With a quiet knowing that something small just became something permanent.
And maybe that’s the secret of this song’s lasting power: it doesn’t chase after memories—it becomes one.