Well, that’s it for another year.

When the tree in the corner of the living room looks more like the sole survivor of a nuclear winter than a winter wonderland, then we tend to know it’s time to call it a day, pack up what’s left of the lights and twinkling ornaments, and return to our work-a-day lives. 

We’ve travelled, eaten, played, laughed, argued sometimes.

We’ve opened, bought, given, smiled, perhaps even cried.

But has any of this festive cheer changed us for the better?  Are we in any way different because of the story of Christmas that we have, in one way or another, re-enacted?

I’m not particularly speaking of faith here, although clearly this is where the story began.  I’m simply wondering whether, as the dark days of winter begin to take their toll (at least for those of us living ‘above the line’), the light that grew with all these ‘good times’ will be strong enough to last the onset of yet-again-ordinary life.

Or perhaps we’re accustomed to letting it fade away slowly – faith, hope and charity eroded by the winds of anxiety that accompany the stresses and strains of modern family life.

Looking back with the hindsight that January tends to bring, I notice that most of us head into the New Year firmly resolved to do less than what we did back in December. 

Eat less, drink less, make less mess. 

Could it be, though, that is where I tend to go wrong?  Are we too quick to extinguish the long shadow of the season and settle back into something less than real life?

American writer and broadcaster, Andy Rooney, died just before Christmas, only a few weeks ago.  “One of the most glorious messes in the world,” he once is reported to have said, “is the mess created in the living room on Christmas day. Don't clean it up too quickly.”

Don’t clean it up too quickly. 

The tree in our home is gone.  To be perfectly honest, I’m not at all sad about that. 

And yet, this year, I’m determined not to forget too quickly those few days of seasonal cheer, surrounded by those I most love in the world.   I’m determined not to forget the feasting, lounging, playing, and long half-meaningful conversations that end deep into the night.

That is my resolution.

After all, these are the moments that my children will remember.  The rest is nothing but white noise.

The postman rarely comes around our way, except to deliver bills or spam. 

Even at Christmas, this messenger’s route is stubbornly unchanged.  But it never used to be like this.

Perched on the window sill, back when I was the age my daughters are now, I can clearly recall the feeling of exhilaration as our local postman came into view at the far end of the street.  Holding an impossibly large collection of letters and small packets (the large ones would come later in the day by van), I remember, on each of the days between the end of school and Christmas Eve, trying to guess how many he would drop through our letter box.

The wait was almost painful, but eventually and without fail a dozen or so white envelopes, each one adorned with special festive stamps, would land on the carpet, spraying in all directions across the floor.

By Christmas Day, each one of these cards had been opened, read and placed on suspended strings right around the walls of the living room – a festival of colour and testimony to the fact, I thought, that my parents had so many ‘friends’. 

I still recall the magic that accompanied all this red, gold, glitter, and seasonal goodwill; simple messages of cheer now posted on a wall.  They never said very much (except for those who chose to add a typed attachment, describing in tedious detail the wonderful achievements of their children).  In the end, though, 140 characters was normally enough to get the message across.

A generation later, there is no one waiting for the postman.  Not in our house, anyway.  A few cards have dribbled in, but sadly not enough to hang upon the wall or convince the kids that anyone is thinking of us at this particular time of the year.

The Christmas card, at least at this end of the street, is dead; replaced by another Wall, where our messages of hope and love are posted by those we chose to call our ‘friends’.

The medium has changed, but our human need to reach out to others and let them know that we are thinking of them during this season of goodwill, clearly, has not.

And probably never will. 

This story needs little explanation.

It's simply an attempt to stand out from the crowd and tell the story of a school at a moment in time when words and pictures no longer differentiate us.

So sit back. 

Relax.

And if you like it, share it.