As the days shorten here at Rydal, and the fells draw a little closer in the early winter light, I’ve been thinking again about a truth that sits right at the heart of Christmas—and at the heart of the gospel: the simple, profound gift of being with. Not fixing, not rushing, not having all the answers. Just being present.

We often recognise this truth long before we find the words for it. We feel it in the quiet of the chapel as candles are lit; in a gentle check-in from someone who pauses long enough to show they care; in the easy companionship of friends who understand us without needing explanations. These small moments of presence can be powerful. They remind us that we are valued. They tell us we are not alone.

Christmas gives us this message in its fullest form. God does not shout from the heavens or stand back from the world. Instead, God comes as a child—vulnerable, dependent, arriving in a world every bit as tangled and tender as our own. In Jesus, God shares life with us from the inside out: our weariness, our wondering, our joy, our pain, our questions and our hopes. Nothing about human life is too ordinary or too messy for him to enter.

This “being with” is not sentimental or cosy. It’s practical, grounded, human. It looks like God choosing to stand beside those who are anxious, grieving, or unsure, as well as those who are full of excitement or expectation. It means God doesn’t wait for us to have everything sorted before drawing near. Instead, in Jesus, God meets us right where we are.

And the whole life of Jesus—his warmth, his compassion, his courage, his willingness to give of himself—flows from that same choice simply to be with us, even when the path is hard.

So at Christmas, the invitation is not to pretend that life is perfect. It’s to notice, even in small ways, that we are being gently held by a love deeper than our circumstances. And then to offer that same presence to one another: to stand alongside the friend who is anxious about the year ahead, the neighbour who will celebrate on their own, the family whose joy is overflowing, the child who still sees magic where we have forgotten to look.

These ordinary moments—these tiny acts of companionship—are where the good news of Christmas takes flesh again.

My prayer for you this season, whether your days feel heavy or hopeful, is that you may sense the comfort of the God who is with us; that you may find good companions on the journey; and that you may glimpse, in kindness offered or received, the light that still shines in the darkness and is never overcome.

Wishing you a gentle, joyful, and hope-filled Christmas,
and peace for the year to come.

Lawrence
Chaplain, Rydal Hall