Christmas has always been a joyful and wondrous time for me. Even as I approach the twilight years, I am amazed and grateful to feel my heart still stirring with the anticipation I felt as a child, but with a deeper awareness and appreciation of what the birth of Christ meant for humanity and for me personally.

As I look back on Christmases past, some stand out because of their very special meaning. Actually the most special of all were those when I had much to rejoice about, but not so much to rejoice with as far as material things are concerned.
At the top of my most memorable Christmases list is the one when I was 12-years-old, and received my first holy communion. I was older than most children when they received their first communion, so my understanding of the momentous occasion was acute after months of catechism study.

What a blessing it was to have the sacred moment take place on Christmas Eve in the hushed candle-lit loveliness of St. Clare’s Roman Catholic Church. The sanctuary was fragrant with incense and pine boughs; tiers of candles flickered beside the altar. I knelt to receive the communion wafer, and trembling with emotion, returned to my seat, covering my face with my hands to savor that moment of complete submission and consummation with Christ on that most wonderful of nights.
At home our traditional family Christmas Eve celebration was in full swing—the glittering tree, mounds of gaily-wrapped gifts and platters of delicious holiday goodies. In a large family like ours, Christmas was not lavish—the food was always homemade and the simple gifts, tokens of love. I barely noticed; my thoughts were elsewhere—on the wonderful gift that I received that night and my new relationship with my Savior.

My daughter’s first Christmas is another that stands out in my memory. Very young, and newly married, my husband and I had limited resources, yet we struggled to create a festive atmosphere for our first Christmas far away from our families. In Hawaii’s tropical warmth, it didn’t feel like Christmas. Fortunately the base PX had real spruce trees available. In our sparse apartment, the tree was a pitiful sight, with shaving cream simulating snow on its skimpy branches, and cheap ornaments that dripped rivulets of red dye wherever the shaving cream had splashed on them. Beneath the tree was a blue teething ring for Allison, a black and white striped surfer shirt for her father and a newspaper-wrapped whisk broom and dustpan for me.

In retrospect it seems like a meager and pitiful attempt at Christmas joy. I recall how my heart longed to be with family on the mainland. Yet I know how blessed I was to have my little daughter healthy, gaining weight and smiling her toothless baby smile. I had realized my life’s goal to have a family of my own to love and care for. Other Christmases have come and gone, yet that skimpy little tree and our determination to keep Christmas still stand out in my mind.
Some of my Christmases have seen loss and sadness, others overflowed with joy. But always, always I have a reason to keep Christmas.


I remember a Christmas of sadness
I remember Christmases of joy
When first I had my little girl
And then my little boy
There were Christmases filled with laughter
One when all I could do was weep
But as I go forward with God at my side
There will always be Christmas to keep