I don’t remember the details of the Christmas after I turned thirteen. Probably the season passed as it always had. Trimming the tree, star on top. Presents secretly wrapped and joining others under the tree. Reading the Christmas story from the book of Luke under the mantel lights in the living room. Our traditional foods, including boiled custard.

No doubt I would have remembered more if I’d known that my father would die before the winter was over.

The next Christmas, my mother and my brother and I didn’t celebrate Christmas at home. We feared it would be too reminiscent of the last one with my father. We traveled to St. Augustine, Florida, and stayed in a motel. No Christmas tree. No boiled custard. Probably we exchanged presents, but I don’t remember them. We took a walk along the beach, but we couldn’t swim because the weather turned too cold. That’s the way it was. Cold and dreary.

Eventually, we would adjust and celebrate Christmas at home. Nevertheless, for me, the magic was gone.

Years later I spent several Christmas seasons in Muslim majority countries where the Santa Claus kind of Christmas did not exist. Instead, I gathered with a few expatriate Christians for small celebrations. We had an amateur concert of Christmas carols one year, I remember.

I began to see that Christmas had nothing to do with Christmas trees or presents or boiled custard. I’m not against a Christmas that includes these things. I enjoy the story of Scrooge and movies like “It’s a Wonderful Life.” But they’re not Christmas.

Christmas is just one day of the Christian calendar. It’s the beginning. Ultimately, it leads to the Crucifixion. Joy in Christmas is always mixed with a little sadness.

Christmas is not a joyous time for all, but that’s okay. Christmas is Emmanuel, God with us for all times.