It’s the best and worst of times.

But try as I might – and perhaps you’re the same – I just can’t help thinking about Christmas without getting all sentimental about this season of goodwill. 

I am a believer, you see; but not in a traditional sense.

Of course, it is hard not to be affected by the devastating, disruptive power of the Nativity; hard not to be drawn to this most fragile, paradoxical moment in human history: ultimate power and vulnerability in equal measure, conjuring up a story of hope and resurrection.

But I am one of the unlucky ones, believing in the whole, damn romance of Christmas – everything from Advent calendars, Santa and Christmas shopping to mulled wine, Quality Street chocolates and roasted chestnuts on an open fire.

It wasn’t always this way, of course.  Circumstances change and these things tend to creep up on you.  If my twenties were all about de-bunking the myths and running away from the traditions to somehow stand out from the crowd, my thirties have been dedicated almost entirely to the pursuit of tinsel-covered emotion and nostalgia.

At 39, you might say, I am a hopeless case and a marketeer’s playground.

The difference, though, between me and my five year-old children is that I am conscious of what I am choosing to believe.

Of course, if I stop to think about it, it hardly ever snows on Christmas Day in my small corner of the globe; my efforts at a traditional Christmas feast are never quite as tasty as Jamie Oliver makes it look on TV; and I haven’t enjoyed the opportunity of waking up and unwrapping presents with all of my children in nearly ten years.  Nothing, in reality, is simple.

But still I believe in the magic of Christmas as something worth fighting for.

Some might say, I guess, that all this tinsel and wrapping paper is just a way of covering up the pain – including the heart-breaking ache of absent children.  And perhaps they are right.  Except, I choose to see things differently.

A pious ‘man of god’ spoke to me this week and told me plainly that, at this time of Christmas, I no longer had a family, but rather a broken family.  As I reflected on his remarks, I thought to myself how awkward, even resentful, this statement made me feel.  

‘I am a believer too’, I reasoned with him, ‘And yet, at this time of year, where you see darkness, I see light; where you see brokenness, I see moments of healing and hope.  Whereas you find God in ritual, I discover him to shine more brightly from the shadows.’

The story of the Nativity is a messy, complicated story, full of shadows, ambiguity and paradox. 

So is mine.  But it won’t stop me singing about it.