Like everything else this year, Christmas is different. A
year ago I could never have imagined this. No Christmas or New Year’s Eve parties.
No carol services or Christmas fetes. No Santa’s grottoes. Winter Wonderland
closed. Churches barely open. Carol singing banned. Shops almost empty. ‘Closing
Down’ signs on every corner. Pubs no longer allowed to sell alcohol and forced
to close at 6pm. The shops and cafes rattle out their usual tinny selection of
schmaltzy Christmas pop songs, but nobody’s heart is really in it. I’m only
glad my daughter doesn't believe in Santa any more because this year I don’t
think I could be bothered to keep up the facade. Money is tight and she knows
it’s going to be a quiet one, as do we all.
This year for the first year ever we’ve made the difficult
decision not to spend Christmas with either set of parents. It feels like the
end of an era. Our decision has been made doubly difficult but the fact that
neither sides of the family are particularly well. But weighing up the statistical
liklihood of catching and passing on this virus, especially when travelling and
passing through busy service stations, we reluctantly realised that it is just
not worth the risk for a day or two of festivities. For the first year I will
be posting all my presents. And we will be spending a quiet family Christmas at
home.
This raises all sorts of questions. What will a quiet family
Christmas look like? Up until now, we’ve always followed my family’s
traditions, which have largely centred around accumulating a large pile of
presents and ripping through wrapping paper like vultures, before eating far
too much turkey and falling asleep. I have decided, first and foremost, that
this year rules and expectations do not apply. In 2020 I’ve had quite enough of
people telling me what to do. So this year, if we want to get up at midday and
spend the day in pyjamas, or eat takeaway fish and chips instead of if turkey
(Steph’s suggestion) who is to say we shouldn’t? In fact, I’ve decided to dress
up to the nines, mostly because I miss dressing up. But Steph wants to stay in
pjs, which is also fine. We'll probably have some kind of roast, but no sprouts
because why should I?
The things I miss most of all are the little rituals.
Candlelight service on Christmas Eve, and walking home arm in arm in the dark,
singing carols. I feel the need for some kind of ritual, not necessarily Church
or Christian, but something meaningful and perhaps symbolic of light flooding
the darkness. This year, of all years, it feels necessary to chase the darkness
away. Believing in hope, in light, in love. Resilience becomes an act of
defiance.
This year I have put up only the decorations I love, and no
more. I’ve ditched the glitzy plastic dangling décor in favour of natural
greenery, tinsel and lots of fairylights. Everything on the tree has personal
meaning for me. There’s a model of a Mari Lwyd, two wrens (both Gower
traditions), a fairy, a Green Man, and lots of tiny musical instruments. These
represent the things and traditions I love. I’ve hand-drawn cards for special
people. Because I’m not sending so many gifts, I’ve spent more time carefully
selecting them, from small local shops I love, and wrapping them prettily.
Toned down Christmas doesn't have to feel like a let-down. In fact, it feels
special, more thoughtful.
The thing is, without all the glitz and the razzmatazz, it’s
easier to see through the commercial haze, and rediscover a side of Christmas I’d
almost forgotten. Because Christmas, of course, has humble origins. It’s framed
around the story of a helpless baby born to a teenaged mum, in a stable, of all
places. Visited by shepherds. There were kings, too, but they came later, and
brought with them new dangers, forcing the mum and the dad and the baby to
become asylum seekers, fleeing a tyrant ruler.
The Magnificat, Mary’s famous song, encapsulates this. The
Church often portrays Mary (and women in general) as submissive, but these
words give a glimpse of something very different. They are, in their quiet way,
revolutionary. They speak of a new way of living, which overturns the rich and tyrannical
and uplifts the poor and humble:
“He has performed
mighty deeds with his arm;
he has
scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts.
He has brought
down rulers from their thrones
but has lifted
up the humble.
He has filled
the hungry with good things
but has sent
the rich away empty.”
All of this is framed, of course, amid a pagan celebration
of the breaking in of light into the dark days of winter – The Winter Solstice,
or Yule. Solstice means standing still. It was the time at which the Sun seemed
to stop in the sky – the shortest day and the longest night, after which the
days would start lengthening again. We still have many days of winter to go
through, but the worst is over. Light is coming.
Whether we celebrate Christmas, Solstice or Yule, it's a
time to be hopeful for the coming of Light into the world. Goodness knows, we
need hope more than ever right now. It feels like so much of what we once took
for granted has been taken away from us, and replaced by darkness and fear. But
Christmas and Solstice tells us that this darkness can’t last forever. In the
end, the Light is always stronger. Hope. Hope always prevails.
(Pic credit: Leon Oblak, on Unsplash pic. Used under Creative Commons License).
