WAS THE RECTOR RIGHT?

“It is midnight,” beamed the Rector, “So if I may be the first, do let me wish you all a very happy Christmas; and let us share the peace.”

I’m not an Anglican but I do think this is a nice thing to do first thing on a Christmas morning. I shook hands with the couple next to me. Then with the pew in front, then behind. Then the people leaning in from the end, thrusting eager hands along the row.

“Peace be with you,” we all said. For that’s how it’s done.

The service ended, and row by row, we shuffled out into the cold, black night as the organist piped and the choir laughed and chatted at the back. A firm handshake and a Merry Christmas with the Rector, and then a brisk walk back to begin the festivities of a Christmas Day.

Was he right? Would it be a happy Christmas?

-

“Oh yes!” said my Dad, holding his Periodic Table mug aloft like a trophy. That was something. There were socks and jumpers and scarves (I got two) and chocolates and biscuits and tins. There were vouchers and cards and pens and pillows and calendars, not to mention books and puzzles and games. Classic FM piped in the carols, and the aroma of roast bird and potatoes wafted in from the kitchen.

-

We went for a walk after lunch. The village was bathed in crisp December sunlight, throwing long pleasant shadows and lighting golden windows. The sky was rich and blue, the air as cold and as sharp as a Christmas Day should be. A father had taken his three children out to the green to kick a new football around; bikes and scooters, still metallic and shiny, flashed past, piloted by kids in their coloured wellington boots. Much further back, breathless parents did their best to keep up. They were at least, smiling.

“Ah - remember the days of walking around the park with Superted costumes and new bicycles?” I said, nostalgically. I sounded impossibly old, but it was really empathy doing the talking.

-

Boxing Day, the feast of Stephen, and a time for quiet reflection. Not really. We loaded the car with boxes of presents and food and made our way to the big family get together.

“Uncle Matthew, click this pen!” said a voice as I stood on my sister’s doorstep. I hadn’t even crossed the threshold. If you can be joyful and weary at the same time (and I don’t see why not) then I was probably that. I expected the pen to squirt water at me, or to make a noise like a whoopie cushion.  Three nephews looked excitedly on as though the front door had been spring-loaded with confetti or custard pies.

But it was none of the above. I clicked the pen. A sharp electric pulse ran up my arm and jolted my skin into goosebumps. They howled with laughter and then moved on to their next victim, who had seen the trick and was more cautious.

It wasn’t long before we were once again crammed into the living room, amidst the noise, the chatter, and the clutter. Lego was everywhere, children in pyjamas were bounding about the sofas, phone screens were on, and the loud conversations oscillated between outlandish conspiracy theory, and Star Wars. I somehow managed to hide the shock-pen throughout.

-

It’s interesting to me how we always try to make Christmastime special by keeping it the same. We do the same things, we eat the same food with the same people. It feels warm and fuzzy because it’s always felt that way, and that’s just how Christmas ‘magic’ works. But then when you look back, they blend into one.

There are some moments of hilarity that will never be forgotten. Even now I could boom the words “Tigers in spaaaace” at my sister and she’d laugh. But those moments stand out like plums in the considerable pudding of Christmases gone by. Could I tell you in which year my sister was given a framed, hand-crafted picture of two tigers floating through the galaxy? Nope. Could she? Probably not. Was it the same Christmas my Dad got an Enya CD with a track called ‘Shepherd Moons’ which we hilariously misinterpreted? Does it matter? Not really.

I thought about all of this on Boxing Day evening, sitting in the same place my Grandma would have sat. She was a great lover of Christmas - everything about it - from the the huge family parties, to the tinkling carols; the famous cinnamon rock cakes, and the delicately wrapped gifts. Her gift, the one she gave every year of my childhood, and perhaps even now, was to bring people together.

And then, on that seat, I opened a present from my Aunt and my Mum, which turned out to be a painting of a tall ship, painted (and now framed) by my Grandpa in 1964. He, like me, had a love of ships but would rather be on the water than in it. He like me, had a fascination with how things work and an eye for capturing a beautiful thing in art or music. His painting won’t win any prizes or find its way to the National Gallery, but it did mean a very special something to me.

-

Was the Rector right? Yes, I think so. It was a happy Christmas. And peace, it occurs to me, was always meant to be shared, just as he’d said on Christmas Eve. From the vaulted roof of the church to the last glass of Appletiser, and all the noise, toys, and boys between. From the resonant chord of the last-played carol, to the silent night when Classic FM was finally switched off - a very happy and peaceful time, like many before it.

And I’m very grateful for that.