Christmas

Christmas has a peculiar way of unlocking the vaults of memory, spilling forth vivid images and sounds that feel like yesterday. These meandering days often find us wandering in a sacred haze, suspended between the mundane and the miraculous. There’s a grace to Christmas that reveals itself only if you slow down enough to see it, a grace that drips with butter and cinnamon, bursts with childlike laughter from TV reruns, and sneaks into the soul like a thief in the night: not to steal, but to return what we’ve forgotten was always ours.

This year, I find myself stepping into someone else’s Christmas, learning new rhythms and rituals. My own childhood traditions are vivid and immutable. now feel distant, like a faint echo: the hum of Bing Crosby, the draughty old house, white-branch decorations, excessive marzipan, and my late Dad’s KJV’s rendering of Luke’s account of the Christmas story aloud before we opened presents. Here I am, married into a new Christmas, where Cambridge Chapel carols are played and the tables are stocked with kindness, care, and calories. Silent Night shares space with Kevin’s shrieks, and the menu is no longer gammon-centred but an array of options around excellent signature quiches.

There’s holiness in shared laughter, especially when it springs from the belly and interrupts the ordinary. In this new family, I’ve been drawn into the old classics, including Home Alone with its irreverent chaos, cleverness, and music swelling with playful irony and heart. Kevin, abandoned yet resourceful, outsmarts burglars with a mix of whimsy and ingenuity. Around me, this family leans in with delighted laughter rippling through the room, offering whispered commentary about how ridiculous yet relatable the story feels. And this is where grace sneaks in, sidling up like an uninvited friend, as we balance plates of buffet-style food, overtaken by conversation, emotion, and the uncertainty of a year’s end.

I’ve seen Home Alone before; who hasn’t? It’s the kind of movie you catch in fragments on TV; its punchlines are familiar even if the details blur. But watching it this time felt different. It wasn’t just a movie; it was a carrier of something deeper: belonging.

For young Kevin, abandonment becomes the soil where he learns the value of family. His loneliness transforms into the very space where new strength grows. Isn’t that just like our Heavenly Father? Taking our fears and sorrows and weaving them into gifts we didn’t know we needed. At first, I’ll admit, I felt adrift… tempted to compare this new Christmas with the golden-hued memories of my past, tallying differences like a possible scorekeeper. But comparison blinds us to beauty. And slowly, I began to see this new Christmas for what it is: a gift.

As Kevin’s story unfolds, I’m struck by his loneliness. Beneath the slapstick antics: the tarantula on Marv’s face, the paint cans swinging down the stairs, is a child who feels forgotten. His bravado masks an ache, visible in his gaze out the window on Christmas Eve. It’s a longing we all know: to belong, to be seen, to have our place at the table secured. It’s why we cling so fiercely to traditions, marking the calendar with sacred days that tether us to one another.

In this new family, traditions abound. Different from those I grew up with, but no less meaningful. There’s joy in the watching, learning, and discerning. I’m moved by the simplicity and sincerity of it all. They’ve scooped me in kindly, their knowing smiles making space for me. “We watch Home Alone every Christmas,” my bride says, her eyes twinkling with certainty. It wasn’t a suggestion, so much as a sacred decree. A tradition carved in the goodness of years past. I’m struck by how effortlessly she inhabits this space, rooted in the rhythms of family Christmases. It’s a grace I gladly welcome.

The lights on the tree blink softly, casting a warm glow as the movie begins. Feasting happens in stops and starts as we eat our fill. Feasting, I think, is an underrated spiritual practice. In a world that tells us to count calories and live efficiently, Scripture reminds us that joy often takes the form of overflowing tables and wine poured generously. God didn’t meet us in an ethereal realm: He came to a world of bread and fish, roasted lamb and figs, dust and distraction. So, as I pile a third helping onto my plate, I try to release the guilt that so often shadows abundance. This moment: the laughter, flavours, and unfolding newness, is a kind of communion.

Somewhere between the pizza delivery scene and the traps in the McCallister house, I realise how much holiness dwells in the ordinary. Brennan Manning once said, “The greatest single cause of atheism in the world today is Christians who acknowledge Jesus with their lips, walk out the door and deny Him by their lifestyle.” But isn’t the opposite also true? The greatest witness to God’s love are people who live joyfully and abundantly, radiating a grace you can’t help but notice. Here, in this welcoming living room, laughing at a boy slapping aftershave on his cheeks, I see it again: grace.

The night stretches on. Kevin’s story ends, as it always does, with reconciliation. His family returns, and the house that once echoed with loneliness fills with chaotic, imperfect love. We’re a long way from the manger, but the echoes are there: the God who enters our mess, choosing the ordinariness of family, food, and laughter as the stage for redemption.

As I settle into this new family’s Christmas, I’m learning to hold my preferences loosely - not as relics to defend but as gifts to share. There’s room for it all. The smells of my childhood mingle with the aromas of this one, creating something richer. And as I slump into seasonal overindulgence, the glad sounds of this family still audible as we part, I feel a deep, unshakeable gratitude. For belonging. For the sacred ordinary. For grace that keeps showing up, even in Home Alone.

So here’s to the reruns and the feasting, the overdone edibles, the paper-plated meals, and the traditions we never expected to have. To the God who finds us when we think we’ve been left behind, who transforms abandonments into adventures, and who turns varied china patterns into communion.

Christmas is messy. The lights flicker unevenly, food catches at the edges and curated Instagram posts never capture the fullness of it. But that’s the point. The first Christmas wasn’t perfect either: a teenage girl gave birth in a stable, shepherds stood awkwardly among animals, and the scene was absurdly ordinary yet laced with glory.

So, count the faces around the table, the memories in the making, and the grace filling the room. Traditions are not just rituals; they are acts of hope, declarations that light still shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

This is Christmas. Messy, abundant, imperfect, and holy. A feast of grace served on spotty plates, with love through twinkling lights, generous meals, and Kevin’s mischievous grin. The invitation is simple: Come. Feast. Believe.