Meyu Changkiri
Every year, when December comes, certain songs return as if they were waiting for us. They do not arrive loudly or demand attention. Instead, they slip quietly into our lives - through a radio playing in a small shop, a phone playlist, or an old recording we had forgotten we still owned. One such song is White Christmas. You hear it at street corners, in old films, or playing softly when the evening grows still.
It is not a religious song. It does not mention God, angels, or sacred stories. And yet, it touches something deep within the human heart.
There is something about White Christmas that refuses to fade with time. Its melody carries memories, and its words express a longing many people feel but rarely articulate. It speaks of home, of togetherness, of peace, and of a world that feels safe and whole - even if only in our imagination.
The song was written in 1942 by Irving Berlin, a Jewish composer, during the Second World War. That detail matters. Berlin wrote White Christmas at a time when the world was deeply unsettled, and when Jewish communities across Europe were facing unimaginable suffering. Families were separated across continents. Young men and women were far from home. Cities were bombed. Fear and uncertainty shaped everyday life.
Berlin did not write the song as a religious statement or from within the Christian tradition. He wrote it as a human response to a fractured world - as a Jewish immigrant to America, expressing a longing for peace, safety, and home at a time when those things felt painfully fragile.
That context helps explain why White Christmas continues to resonate so widely. It did not emerge from comfort or celebration, but from loss, displacement, and hope held against the weight of reality.
That honest longing is what has allowed the song to travel across cultures, generations, and faiths. Though it came from a particular moment in history, its message feels universal. It speaks to something deeply human: the desire to belong, to rest, and to feel whole again.
That is why White Christmas still speaks to us today. Many people approach Christmas carrying silent burdens. We smile, exchange greetings, decorate our homes, and share meals, but inside there may be memories, losses, regrets, and unfulfilled hopes. For many, Christmas is not only a season of joy; it is also a season of reflection and quiet longing.
Over the years, I have come to see this side of Christmas very clearly.
The Christmases of Staying
This year marks the eighteenth Christmas that my family and I will spend in Shillong without a break - a rhythm quietly shared by many who serve communities year after year. We have stayed because of responsibility. We have stayed because certain seasons demand presence more than movement. We have stayed because this is where life placed us.
I do not say this to complain or to seek sympathy. Serving people has been a privilege. It has shaped our lives, stretched our patience, and taught us compassion. It has allowed us to walk closely with others during some of their most important moments - times of celebration, crisis, grief, and healing. These moments matter, and they leave a mark.
Yet commitment often comes with a cost, and some costs are not immediately visible.
For many years, I carried a simple wish. I wanted to take my children to our native place during Christmas. I wanted them to celebrate the season with their grandparents. I imagined them sitting together, listening to old stories, eating familiar food, laughing, and sharing the warmth of family history.
That wish will never be fulfilled now. Their grandparents are no longer with us. Time has moved on, and some opportunities do not return.
This is one of those quiet sacrifices that long-term responsibility brings - rarely noticed, often assumed, and seldom spoken about. It is not dramatic. It does not invite applause. But it is real. Many people in service-oriented roles carry similar stories: missed gatherings, postponed journeys, and personal hopes gently set aside for the sake of others.
When I reflect on this, my thoughts turn naturally to another group who often carry even heavier sacrifices - those who live and work far from home for the sake of service.
Christmas Far from Home
Many people do not spend just one or two Christmases away from family. Some spend years - sometimes decades - celebrating the season far from familiar places, familiar food, familiar language, and familiar routines.
While families gather around decorated homes and warm tables, some mark Christmas quietly. They may be in rented rooms, hostels, staff quarters, or remote locations. Phone calls replace embraces. Messages replace shared meals. Time differences mean greetings arrive early or late, squeezed between long workdays.
They serve others while quietly missing home themselves. Parents miss watching their children grow. Children grow up knowing grandparents only through photographs and stories.
Some choose to celebrate Christmas with the communities they serve. They eat unfamiliar food, sing unfamiliar songs, and adapt to unfamiliar customs. In those moments, Christmas becomes less about memory and more about meaning - less about what is missing, and more about presence.
It is important not to romanticise such sacrifices. Long years away from home shape people deeply. There are Christmases marked by loneliness, illness, cultural isolation, uncertainty, or quiet discouragement. These experiences are real and heavy.
Yet many continue - not because it is easy, but because they believe their presence matters.
Perhaps Christmas invites us to ask not only, “How are we celebrating?” but also, “Who is staying, or who has gone, so that others may celebrate?” When such people are remembered through genuine care, messages, and appreciation, they are strengthened. When they are forgotten, the burden becomes heavier.
Rethinking Christmas
Over time, these experiences have reshaped how I understand Christmas. We often describe it as a season of travel, family gatherings, and celebration - and all of that is meaningful. But the first Christmas, as remembered in history, was not comfortable.
It was marked by displacement, uncertainty, and vulnerability. It began far from home, without familiarity or ease.
At its heart, Christmas reminds us that hope often enters the world quietly, through sacrifice rather than comfort.
This understanding changes how we measure joy. It teaches us that joy and longing can exist side by side. That faithfulness sometimes means staying when the heart wants to leave, and giving when the heart wants to receive.
That lesson is costly - but it is also formative.
Why the Longing Persists
When people respond emotionally to White Christmas, they are not merely reacting to nostalgia. They are responding to longing - a desire for a world that feels peaceful, pure, and whole again.
This longing is not accidental. It arises because human experience is marked by fracture and incompleteness. Across cultures and histories, people have sensed that something in the world is not as it should be.
Christmas does not deny this reality. Instead, it acknowledges it and speaks into it. It reminds us that hope does not come through escape, but through presence. Healing does not begin by avoiding brokenness, but by entering it.
Our longing for peace suggests that peace once existed - or should exist. Our desire for home points to a deeper need for belonging. Our hunger for wholeness reveals how deeply we feel the fractures around us.
Living with the Tension
Life often holds tension between what is and what we hope for. That tension is not a sign of failure. It is a sign of expectation.
This is why Christmas can feel both beautiful and painful. We celebrate connection, yet we feel absence. We express gratitude, yet we sense loss. We sing, yet sometimes we ache.
For those in service roles - pastors, full-time community workers, healthcare professionals, caregivers, security personnel, and many others - this tension is often felt intensely. While others travel, they stay. While others rest, they remain on duty. While others celebrate freely, they carry responsibility.
These are the people who quietly make it possible for others to celebrate safely, meaningfully, and peacefully.
The Promise that Sustains
Hope, at its best, does not ignore exhaustion or sacrifice. It gives them context.
Every tradition that speaks honestly about hope also speaks of a future where loss does not have the final word. Where separation gives way to reunion. Where service is no longer tiring, but joyful.
This perspective helps us see present sacrifices differently. The tiredness, the missed moments, the unfulfilled wishes - these are not permanent. They are chapters, not conclusions.
Christmas reminds us that hope has already entered the world. And hope tells us that one day, what is broken will be made whole.
Staying with Purpose
So when White Christmas plays again this season, it can remind us of something deeper than nostalgia. It can remind us that longing is part of being human - and that hope is part of our shared future.
Christmas is not only about celebration. It is also about service. It is about those who stay so others may celebrate. Those who remain faithful in quiet places. Those who give without applause. Those whose sacrifices are unseen but deeply meaningful.
For those who feel tired this season, for those who have given much and received little, for those whose hopes remain unfulfilled, Christmas offers a quiet assurance: you are not forgotten.
Hope is with us. And one day, every longing will find its answer. Until then, we continue to serve. That, too, is part of what Christmas means.
