I returned from a journey this morning, not one measured in miles, but a quiet travel through memory. It was a journey back to childhood, to those simple yet profound moments that defined what Christmas once meant to us.
Growing up, the arrival of the 25th of December signified abundance. Everything felt complete: new shoes, new clothes, and sometimes new glasses. We sat eagerly in church, restless on the pews, counting the minutes until the final prayer, so we could hurry home to plates filled with rice and rich stew.
Christmas had its own language, and we understood it perfectly.
One unmistakable sign of Christmas then was the footwear our parents bought for us, almost always larger than our actual size. Foam was carefully inserted to make the shoes fit, and any attempt to protest was met with reassurance, “You are growing, your feet will soon catch up.” There remains, even now, at least one Christmas shoe my feet never quite grew into.
There was also an unspoken rule of the season, if your shoes did not blink with colourful lights or produce musical sounds as you walked, then it hardly felt like Christmas. With every step, we announced our presence, little sirens beneath our feet, clearing paths and heralding our arrival.
Christmas was also a season of reunion. Cousins and relatives long unseen gathered again, turning homes into places of laughter and shared stories. Like eager messengers, we moved from house to house, greeting familiar and unfamiliar faces alike, chanting “Happy Christmas,” and returning home with pockets heavy with crisp mint notes generously given by uncles and aunties.
At the feet of our mothers, we laid down our earnings for safekeeping. Yet days later, when sent on errands to buy detergent or sugar, we noticed a striking resemblance between the money entrusted to her care and the money placed back into our hands.
Any protest was calmly dismissed as a simple mix-up—our funds, we were assured, remained safely kept. When, weeks later, repayment was requested with the promised interest, the response came gently but firmly, “Have you been paying for the food you eat in this house?” Peace was eventually restored when it was agreed that my refund would come the day my mother herself recovered her own childhood Christmas savings.
Today, Christmas is more than a festive season marked by well-seasoned meals and public holidays. It is a moment to pause, to reflect deeply, and to ask ourselves a vital question: What is the true reason for this season, and who gives it its meaning? The celebration must go beyond the table and return to its purpose.
No matter where one comes from, whether near or far, Christmas invites us to celebrate a gift beyond material value, one that cannot be measured in currency. This is not merely “Xmas,” for we are not ashamed of Christ in Christmas; rather, we embrace Him as our badge of honour.
Even in chains and confinement, faith has always found a voice.
Joy has never been restrained by prisons, nor praise silenced by hardship. This is the power of the gift that Christmas represents.
So whether on earth or beyond it, today we celebrate Christmas. We celebrate the King of the universe, our Shepherd, our Redeemer, the true guide of our lives, born humbly in a manger.
