And so, another Christmas. Adults may not like it, but it is a day for children. Sure, there is a delicious, if over-indulged, dinner with family or friends. Even the lonely can find a nook somewhere at a church hall or community kitchen. It is a festival that can be pleasantly spent, the worries of the past year and those yet to come quietly shelved for at least one day.

But the magic belongs to the children. You can argue that Christmas has become one massive spending-spree, an almost thoughtless rush to the checkout counter. You might be right, though only up to a point. Somewhere in the tinsel and wrappings, the saccharine carols events, the frenetic stocking of refrigerators and hiding of gifts, the well-meant seasonal cliches, somewhere, there is a spark that never fails to light the fuse for the small and innocent. For them, every moment stretches like a fragile eternity, every well-worn symbol is a marker, newly minted.

Jesus, for whom this day rightly exists, was bang on when he said that the Kingdom of Heaven was a place for those who became like children. That children continue to dominate the celebration is fitting. We can excuse the hastily torn off wrapping and soon-forgotten presents - they are a legacy of our own folly.

But for adults, there is still the day and the company of others. It cannot be replicated on any other day, for Christmas Day is quite unique. It is not forever though.

In, The House of Hospitalities, Thomas Hardy laments the falling away of Christmas gatherings thus:

'And the worm has bored the viol
That used to lead the tune,
Rust eaten out the dial
That struck night’s noon.'

His friends and family have gone or passed away and things are not the same as before.

'Yet at midnight if here walking,
When the moon sheets wall and tree,
I see forms of old time talking,
Who smile on me.'

There is always memory, with its capacity to bring a momentary joy.

Merry Christmas.