LONDON—I’m dressed as if for Siberian outing. The cold winter’s night was deep, leaving hoar on the ground, frost melting on leafless branches dancing gaily against a naked sky. The winter solstice is nigh, and Christmas, too.

As the Salvation Army band, dressed as if for the Crimean War, plays cheesy Christmas carols which gladden my heart, I wait in line at the Post Office, little old dears clucking away to collect pensions and post parcels to faraway relations. The counters are festooned with twinkling fairy lights and fake hollies twined with mistletoe.

It can’t be helped; even the bleakness of midwinter, gripped by the black claws of recession, yields to the relentlessly festive cheer of Christmases past, present and yet to come.

There’s a lot of digging deep into pockets because of the economic gloom, so I’m mildly shocked when the sales person at the counter says, “That will be £47 for the stamps then!” for Christmas cards to reach faithful friends and relations before Christmas.

We like to send and receive Christmas cards—over a billion of them this year alone. If you have bought cards that benefit charities, you will have earned a warm, Bono awareness-rated glow, for they raise £50 million a year for good causes.

“I’m buying gifts with next year’s money,” a friend who recently lost his job said, letting credit cards take the strain. Last year, Britons spent an average of £1,000 per person on Christmas gifts; this year, in tune with the credit crunch, the spend is anticipated to be £400 per person. The rest will be handmade scarves, homemade jams and pot plants.

“From a commercial point of view, if Christmas didn’t exist it would be necessary to invent it,” wrote Katharine Whitehorn.

Hungry for meaning

The Bishop of Reading, the Rev. Stephen Cottrell, caused an almighty kerfuffle the other day when he scolded us: “I’ve got about a hundred Christmas cards to write and ghastly round-robin letters to read. What is this all about? Don’t write ‘must see you this year’ on your cards unless you mean it. If you don’t mean it, why are you sending the card at all?” He believes, as do many more like him, that the hustle and bustle of Christmas has clouded the true meaning of Advent. Hungry for meaning, the world seems to run instead on a few well-chosen clichés we spend an eternity repeating to each other.

Eight million trees are sold. On Saturday, I will be picking up a lovely Norwegian fir from the nursery—something my husband and I used to do together when he was still alive. I miss the old boy. Christmas dredges the memories each time. I’d like to wake up on Christmas morning to see that it had all been a dream, he is still here. A thousand ages are like an evening gone. My tears should really be turned into something finer.

My son and I have kept up the family traditions. The scent of Christmas is distilled in our home; Scrooge doesn’t live here. We deck the hall with holly and while we don’t roast chestnuts in an open fire, there’s always a glass of toddy, or something more lethal, for those who come to call with glad tidings.

The morning frost nips my nose. I leave crumbs and nuts for the squirrels that come foraging in my garden, where all is calm and all is bright. I ring up my son, who is busy at work, but humors his sentimental parent. “So, what can I get you for Christmas?” he asks; he knows I’m difficult to buy for. Since his father died, I have guarded myself against happiness and enjoyment. It’s easier that way, but not when it comes to my only child, who is a gift to me. “Gold, frankincense and myrrh,” I say. “Don’t be silly,” he chides. In a favorite New Yorker cartoon, a woman is knelt in prayer by her bed. “I don’t ask much, but what I get should be of very good quality,” she intones. Amen.

What Bethlehem story?

“The church is near but the road is icy. The pub is far away but I will walk carefully” said a sign in a Dorset inn. Nicely sums up the lost meaning of the season. We no longer tell and retell the story of baby Jesus in Bethlehem and our redemption. What does it matter in a world spinning out of control?

In a spiritual void waiting to be filled, do we still hold anything to be sacred? There are billions of us on Earth; any shrink will tell you we’re all connected but, especially at Christmas time, many of us feel utterly alone, with the ache of alienated exhaustion.

In this wasteland where advances in technology, science and narcotizing entertainment diminish the world’s wonders, who will do the Lord’s work and lighten our darkness?

For all its forced jollity, Christmas invites us to moments of introspection and silent prayer. Mine is one of thanks, for Christmas is also about gratitude. For my darling son, my sweet sister, my lovely editor who puts up with all my nail-biting angst, my true friends, the man who says he loves me. And now, with bonhomie fully restored, have yourself a merry little Christmas and let your heart be light.