The long shadow of the season

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.

Do you believe in Christmas?

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.