I love Christmas.
Always have.
Growing up on the farm, it was the one time of year when all the extended family came home.
The town cousins arrived like they’d been released from captivity. Shoes off within minutes. Climbing trees, tearing around the yard, then straight into the pool — and straight into trouble. Later, off up to Christmas Tree Hill to argue over who’d found the best Christmas tree to cut down and take home.
Mum and Dad worked less that week. Not because the work wasn’t there, but because Christmas quietly gave permission. The farm would survive. The stock would be fine. The world wouldn’t end if a job waited until January.
At night, the house changed.
Cards on the table. The soft clack of shuffling. Aunties laughing too loud. Uncles pretending they weren’t losing. Someone always cheating — or at least being accused of it. Stories retold for the hundredth time, getting better with every telling.
That was Christmas.
And without knowing it, we were banking something far more valuable than money.
We were banking memories.
These days, I arrive as the “one who moved away”.
I pull back into the same place — but now I bring my own little convoy. My wife. My daughter Sophie.
She’s the town cousin now.
Out riding in the back of the ute with Pa. Swinging out of the tops of trees. Covered in dust, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Then, just like that, the leftovers are gone. The house empties. The cousins disappear. And it’s back to reality. Back to routines. Back to plans, goals, and the ever-growing to-do list.
That’s usually when I stop myself and run what I call The Rocking Chair Test.
It’s simple.
I imagine myself at 90.
Still stubborn. Still opinionated. Probably still asking why things aren’t done properly.
One of my grandkids sits down beside me and asks two questions:
“What are you really proud of, Granddad?”
“What do you wish you’d taken more time to do?”
No one — and I mean no one — answers those questions with “I wish I’d spent more hours at the office.”
The answers live somewhere else.
They live in backyards and kitchens.
In long conversations that didn’t need fixing.
In moments you nearly missed because you were “too busy”.
When Sophie came into my life, my answers changed.
Not overnight.
But permanently.
I still care about building wealth. About setting ambitious goals. About being responsible and doing things properly. That stuff matters.
But it’s no longer the headline.
It’s now the supporting act.
Because when you’re old and sitting in the rocking chair, money is useful — but it’s not comforting.
People are.
Time is.
Memories are.
So here’s the quiet challenge I want to leave you with.
Before this year runs away from you — before the next season, the next project, the next excuse — sit with those two questions.
Not to judge yourself.
Not to feel guilty.
Just to listen.
Because one day, the chair won’t be imaginary.
And when it stops rocking, you’ll want to know you lived a life worth remembering.
Until next time,
Cheers, Ben
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Disclaimer: The information contained in this article is general in nature and for education purposes only. It is not financial advice. No one should act on the information without appropriate specific advice for your particular circumstances. Ben Law is a former financial advisor but is no longer licensed and cannot and will not give you specific or personal advice in this article. The Financial Bloke Group Pty Ltd accepts no responsibility for any loss or damage occasioned by any person acting or refraining from action as a result of reliance on the information in this article.