Connected Christmas
In our house, we talk a lot about connection. Not just as a nice idea, but as something we actively work at. When our kids are overwhelmed or shut down or spinning out, we try not to launch into a lecture. We slow down. We sit with them. We try to reconnect.
Because we know—instinctively, and thanks to a few too many parenting books—that when connection is strong, everything else flows better. They trust us. We can guide them. Be a safe place when the world feels big and confusing.
It’s hard work. And honestly, a lot of the time I’m not as present as I want to be. I find myself half-listening while scrolling, or rushing through the moment so I can tick off the next thing. But I keep trying—because I know it matters.
And in the middle of it all—trying, failing, reconnecting—I keep noticing something bigger. The more we learn about how connection shapes our kids—how they grow, how they heal, how they handle the mess of life—the more I wonder if this isn’t just about parenting. Maybe it’s a mirror. Maybe it tells us something about how we were made to relate. About what we actually need. Not just as kids, but as humans.
That longing to be seen, soothed, safe, and not alone? I don’t think it goes away when we grow up. And I don’t think it’s something we’re meant to outgrow.
Which is why, at Christmas, I’m drawn to the way the story begins—not with commands from above, but with closeness. Jesus arrives not as an idea to understand, or a system to follow, but as a person. A baby, even. Small enough to hold. Needing holding. Not just near, but literally present in the dirt and noise of real life.
That’s what attachment theory tells us too, isn’t it? That humans are wired to seek connection. That security and wholeness grow best in the soil of consistent, safe love. That we learn to regulate not by being left alone to figure things out, but by having someone near who stays calm and kind while we fall apart. Someone bigger, stronger, and wiser.
It’s not just good parenting science. It’s the whole logic of how God chose to enter our world—fully human, fully present, right alongside us.
God doesn’t shout instructions from a distance. He comes close. Takes on skin. Moves into the neighbourhood. Becomes interruptible, observable, knowable. He joins us in the mess instead of waiting for us to climb out of it.
That’s the Christmas story. Not a theological concept to nod at, but a relational move that reshapes the whole world.
With God showing up in the most ordinary, human way possible. A child, no less—vulnerable, attached, dependent. Not above us, but beside us.
And in doing so, God meets that deep ache we all carry—the need to be truly known, truly loved, and never left. And Christmas reminds us it’s not a flaw. It’s part of what makes us human. And it’s part of how we reflect the One who made us.
And maybe what’s most striking, as I sit with this story again, is that God doesn’t just tolerate connection. He seeks it.
Before we even realise we’re lost or lonely, He’s already on the move—like a parent crouching low to find their child’s eyes. Like a friend who turns up without needing an invitation. He doesn’t avoid the mess or stay safe from afar. He enters it—risking rejection, carrying our pain, choosing presence over power. And with no pressure to perform, no demand to fix ourselves, He simply says: “I’m here.”
And maybe, if we’re quiet enough this Christmas, we’ll hear Him whisper it again: “I’m here. Right beside you.”
This piece was written forour 2025 Christmas Mini-Mag given to our Playgroup families.