Christmas has a way of reopening doors the heart never really locked.
Every December, without fail, my mind returns to my father, gone for over thirty years now, taken during the Christmas season itself. Time has stretched between us, yet this period collapses it completely. Memory does not age. It waits.
I remember how Christmas drew us back to the village, year after year. No matter where life had taken us, we gathered again, children, cousins, relations, neighbours, pulled home by something stronger than obligation. It was belonging.
Ours was an unusual family by modern standards, a polygamous household, yet Christmas dissolved every label. We were one family then. One laughter. One table. One shared joy. Before adulthood scattered us across countries in search of greener pastures, we were rooted together.
My father’s house stood at the centre of it all.
It was more than a home; it was a symbol. A colossus of early civilisation in the village. The only house with electric light. At night, it glowed — literally and figuratively. People gathered in front of that palatial house, drawn to the brightness, to the music, to the sense that something special was happening there. Christmas lived in that compound.
Today, I sit in London under grey winter skies, the cold pressing against the windows, and I reminisce. The contrast is stark village warmth versus city quiet, dust roads versus wet pavements, yet memory bridges the distance effortlessly. I can still hear the echoes of laughter, the hum of voices, the joy that needed nothing elaborate to exist.
This is why I write about Christmas year after year.
Because some stories refuse to be silent.
This year has been heavy. Life has carried its weight, as it often does. But Christmas invites reflection, not just on loss, but on survival. As we grow older, it becomes painfully obvious how fortunate we are simply to be here, to witness another December, to remember, to hope.
So I hold the past gently.
I remain grateful for the present.
And I pray boldly for the future.
In the spirit of Christmas, gratitude is all I can truly offer to my Lord, the author and finisher of our faith.
Happy Christmas, everyone.
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