I've celebrated, so far, over half a century's worth of Christmases. All have been spent in the loving and boisterous bosom of my family; all have featured torn gift wrapping strewn about the living room, good food that took hours to prepare and minutes to consume, laughter, hugs, and general good will. There were many Christmases long ago when the whole family climbed into our huge Chevy station wagon in our coats and Christmas finery, to drive to the Main Chapel on post for Midnight Mass. The colored lights cheered our way and the very air smelled of something joyful and comforting.
There have also been Christmases that, on one level at least, were not so joyful. There was the Christmas of 1995, when I was going through the deepest depression of my life. Not yet returned to the sacraments at that time, I nevertheless experienced an inexplicable but undeniable solace when I walked into the church with my parents for Vigil Mass. Perhaps that was the beginning of my religious reversion.
There have been three Christmases dimmed by the shadow of death: just days before Christmas 1977, my sister died, shot at point-blank range by her so-called boyfriend. The month before Christmas 2011, my father died, a peaceful early morning passing after years of physical and, I'm certain, mental suffering. And this year in Connecticut, twenty-six souls were taken from this earth in one mindless, brutal act.
Through them all, there has been light. There has been hope. There has been love. These are things given by a merciful God to sustain and strengthen us, and can never be taken away.
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