The Day After Christmas
by Donavon L Riley
Christmastide is not the end of joy, but its slow unfolding, where the heart, now still, picks up the story of the birth, beyond the fever of the feast.— D.
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The day after Christmas is like the frost on the far side of a winter storm—an arrival. The clamor of unwrapping and feasting settles into something deeper, quieter. It’s a day when the air feels bruised by what has passed, yet strangely tender, as if the world itself holds its breath to remember. This is Christmastide, not the leaving behind of joy, but the stretching out of it. Now, as the hands rest and the kitchen quiets, the heart has space to pick up the thread. Here lies the gift we overlooked in the rush: the birth that lingers beyond its hour.
What shall we make of this day? The hymns may hang in our throats unspoken, but the feast continues in the simplest gestures. Each step to the woods, each log placed on the fire, each line read from an old, creased book—we are making our way toward the great roots of the season. We’ve prepared the way for Christ in the manger; now He finds His dwelling in the marrow of our hours. Like Mary who held her child and learned to hold stillness, so too must we gather the gold of silence and experience its work through us, turning bustle into balm.
The day after Christmas offers us the time to listen more than to speak, to see more than to strive. The child has come, not to visit but to dwell. This is the time of planting what the feast proclaimed. It’s not fleeting mirth but a steady, growing joy. The season of lights and garlands reveal its true burden: a life of tenderness lived long after the last ornament is returned to its box. For now, we cradle something eternal, and it does not leave us. The season may swell and fade, but the song remains the same—Unto us, a child is born. Unto us, a son is given, and all the weight of rule will rest upon his shoulders. He shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.