Chai.

Fulton Sheen once wrote that even in that exultation of the Word made flesh, still there was the shadow of the cross. If ever there was one person born for the sole purpose of dying, he was birthed in a manger in the quiet town of Bethlehem, circa two thousand years ago.

This is the season which somehow makes me far more morose than it probably should. All that jubilation comes across as forced. Again I wonder at the commercialization of Christmas. Thankfully, it is far more subdued here in Perth. There’s a strong streak of tired cynicism that comes with being service staff working flat-out on Christmas Eve and only getting home at about 23:50, completely worn out.

This Christmas Eve was the first one I’ve spent not going to the midnight service in the longest time. It was instead spent being extremely tired out after work, eating random chicken nugget-like things, and talking to Char over my kitchen counter. Inestimably more homey and comfortable than wearing the obligatory shirt and mouthing platitudes at random persons whom I know but really can’t be too bothered about.

That said, I do miss that Christmas Eve service back in Singapore. I miss my friends and the attached silliness after. Then again, now that I’ve been so far away, I would probably feel like the outsider in all of this. Maybe it’s good that I’m still Perth-bound. Somehow just holding Char under the warm summer starlight makes this seem so much better.

My grandmother died 18 years ago today. I miss her. God rest her soul.

Merry Christmas, all.