Awakening to the cuts of rain upon roof and window, I groggily opened my eyes. The early hour was still dark, and in the air this haunting song played thanks to the radio I neglected to turn off the night before. It brought me back to the Christmases of my childhood, where this song played such a part in the church services of advent. No matter what else was going on, the hushed reverence paid to this melody struck through the space. This is what it felt like to be holy.

How strange that Christmas Eve should always feel like such a dark night. My memories of it are always surrounded by the thick veil of blackness at the edge – the way we would march into mass just as the sun was descending, and march out in complete darkness. Sometimes it was already dark out when we left for church, and even without all the Christmas lights on the houses, or perhaps because of them, the darkness felt more full, more endless, more… dramatic. 

What light might there have been in that manger all those years ago? I don’t recall mention of a roaring fire, or even candlelight, only that it was cold, and they laid the baby in the straw because it was all they had. Desolation begets drama, and so the Christmas story of my childhood was told to me. Every year that story would be read to the congregation of St. Mary’s, and I remember sitting on the altar in my altar boy garb, twiddling my fingers beneath the cassock and eagerly anticipating the magic of the evening ahead. It was the one church service I didn’t mind attending, as the nativity beside us glowed with its own light, staving off the surrounding darkness, reminding me of where my head should be. Jesus – the reason for the season – or so said a religious instructor I once had. I laughed so hysterically at the saying that she couldn’t help but laugh too. She recognized the sense of silliness inherent in such a belief, and I recognized the seriousness of her faith – somewhere in the middle we met, and I didn’t get in trouble for disrupting the class. 

Christmas Eve was the night we were supposed to pause and reflect on what the season truly meant, outside of the gift-giving and Santa showmanship. Personally, I got the lesson early and understood that it wasn’t about packages, boxes or bags – hell, anyone who paid attention to ‘The Grinch Who Stole Christmas’ knew Christmas meant a little bit more. Though that certainly didn’t mean I didn’t want the gifts and presents. Who wouldn’t? 

We begged and sang for God to give rest to us merry gentlemen, and we went to bed barely able to contain our excitement or close our eyes. Restless beneath the bed covers, I still ended up falling asleep well before Santa ever arrived. My brother managed to stay up one year, sneak down to the landing of the stairs, and spied on my parents putting presents under the tree. I think I knew the secret by then, but didn’t let on. He was more vocal in his disbelief. Somehow, I didn’t want to break the spell. We were always different in just about every way. 

We have arrived at the start of that special evening once again, and though it’s been a while since I’ve felt the magic I felt as a kid, remnants of it remain. Mysteries still unsolved linger in the songs here, hints of enchantments that smell of pine and cinnamon carry through the air, and hidden treats are tantalizingly hung in the upper echelon of unreachable Christmas tree boughs. Maybe the magic is in the mystery of it all, and holding onto that is how we hold onto Christmas. It’s so easy to break the spell in the harsh light of day – perhaps all this darkness is how the magic happens. 

Having gone through all the motions, and donned all the holiday costumes, and felt the magic of friends and family come through, I still haven’t quite gotten in the Christmas spirit this year – and it’s ok. My basic nature is to intrinsically rebel against what everybody else is doing, even when it would be much easier to acquiesce – and at this time of the year, when so many are giddy with cheer and excitement, I just feel the tug of my heart pulling the other way. Looking back over the drama and down times that previous holiday seasons have produced (social media can relentlessly remind one of that) as well as blogs from Christmases past (search the archives for Decembers that came before), I see the pattern of the problematic push to force myself into a state of happiness that the rest of the world so effortlessly seems to attain. How could such a Grinch possibly hope to find redemption year after year after year? Why repeat such a self-defeating prophecy? Once that lesson is learned, what’s the point of slipping back just so you can better yourself come Christmastime? I’d rather be better going forward than revert to previous behavior in the hopes of accomplishing some sort of epiphany every single year. That’s simply not sustainable.

I’m getting in my head again, and I don’t mind putting it out there. Some people simply don’t find the joy in Christmas – so maybe this post is for them. In the same way that some of us don’t have children, or like Skittles, or have Netflix – we march to a different little drummer boy. The more you try to sell us on the Christmas spirit, the more we rebel against it. Sometimes when I see people enveloped in the season, going about in happier moods and shouting about holiday compassion, I want to ask why they don’t act like a fucking decent human being all the other days of the year. Jesus would surely want that shit to continue year-round. 

But then I take a deep breath, and I get a little high (just kidding – I’m quoting some song, I swear…) the point is, I pause in my judgment and let the people have their fun, and their Christmas spirit. It doesn’t hurt anyone, like some hypocrisy can, and if people are happier at the darkest time of the year, all the better – just don’t expect me to join in the grinning idiotry.