Awakening to the cuts of rain upon roof and window, I groggily opened my eyes. The early hour was still dark, and in the air this haunting song played thanks to the radio I neglected to turn off the night before. It brought me back to the Christmases of my childhood, where this song played such a part in the church services of advent. No matter what else was going on, the hushed reverence paid to this melody struck through the space. This is what it felt like to be holy.

How strange that Christmas Eve should always feel like such a dark night. My memories of it are always surrounded by the thick veil of blackness at the edge – the way we would march into mass just as the sun was descending, and march out in complete darkness. Sometimes it was already dark out when we left for church, and even without all the Christmas lights on the houses, or perhaps because of them, the darkness felt more full, more endless, more… dramatic. 

What light might there have been in that manger all those years ago? I don’t recall mention of a roaring fire, or even candlelight, only that it was cold, and they laid the baby in the straw because it was all they had. Desolation begets drama, and so the Christmas story of my childhood was told to me. Every year that story would be read to the congregation of St. Mary’s, and I remember sitting on the altar in my altar boy garb, twiddling my fingers beneath the cassock and eagerly anticipating the magic of the evening ahead. It was the one church service I didn’t mind attending, as the nativity beside us glowed with its own light, staving off the surrounding darkness, reminding me of where my head should be. Jesus – the reason for the season – or so said a religious instructor I once had. I laughed so hysterically at the saying that she couldn’t help but laugh too. She recognized the sense of silliness inherent in such a belief, and I recognized the seriousness of her faith – somewhere in the middle we met, and I didn’t get in trouble for disrupting the class. 

Christmas Eve was the night we were supposed to pause and reflect on what the season truly meant, outside of the gift-giving and Santa showmanship. Personally, I got the lesson early and understood that it wasn’t about packages, boxes or bags – hell, anyone who paid attention to ‘The Grinch Who Stole Christmas’ knew Christmas meant a little bit more. Though that certainly didn’t mean I didn’t want the gifts and presents. Who wouldn’t? 

We begged and sang for God to give rest to us merry gentlemen, and we went to bed barely able to contain our excitement or close our eyes. Restless beneath the bed covers, I still ended up falling asleep well before Santa ever arrived. My brother managed to stay up one year, sneak down to the landing of the stairs, and spied on my parents putting presents under the tree. I think I knew the secret by then, but didn’t let on. He was more vocal in his disbelief. Somehow, I didn’t want to break the spell. We were always different in just about every way. 

We have arrived at the start of that special evening once again, and though it’s been a while since I’ve felt the magic I felt as a kid, remnants of it remain. Mysteries still unsolved linger in the songs here, hints of enchantments that smell of pine and cinnamon carry through the air, and hidden treats are tantalizingly hung in the upper echelon of unreachable Christmas tree boughs. Maybe the magic is in the mystery of it all, and holding onto that is how we hold onto Christmas. It’s so easy to break the spell in the harsh light of day – perhaps all this darkness is how the magic happens. 

Having gone through all the motions, and donned all the holiday costumes, and felt the magic of friends and family come through, I still haven’t quite gotten in the Christmas spirit this year – and it’s ok. My basic nature is to intrinsically rebel against what everybody else is doing, even when it would be much easier to acquiesce – and at this time of the year, when so many are giddy with cheer and excitement, I just feel the tug of my heart pulling the other way. Looking back over the drama and down times that previous holiday seasons have produced (social media can relentlessly remind one of that) as well as blogs from Christmases past (search the archives for Decembers that came before), I see the pattern of the problematic push to force myself into a state of happiness that the rest of the world so effortlessly seems to attain. How could such a Grinch possibly hope to find redemption year after year after year? Why repeat such a self-defeating prophecy? Once that lesson is learned, what’s the point of slipping back just so you can better yourself come Christmastime? I’d rather be better going forward than revert to previous behavior in the hopes of accomplishing some sort of epiphany every single year. That’s simply not sustainable.

I’m getting in my head again, and I don’t mind putting it out there. Some people simply don’t find the joy in Christmas – so maybe this post is for them. In the same way that some of us don’t have children, or like Skittles, or have Netflix – we march to a different little drummer boy. The more you try to sell us on the Christmas spirit, the more we rebel against it. Sometimes when I see people enveloped in the season, going about in happier moods and shouting about holiday compassion, I want to ask why they don’t act like a fucking decent human being all the other days of the year. Jesus would surely want that shit to continue year-round. 

But then I take a deep breath, and I get a little high (just kidding – I’m quoting some song, I swear…) the point is, I pause in my judgment and let the people have their fun, and their Christmas spirit. It doesn’t hurt anyone, like some hypocrisy can, and if people are happier at the darkest time of the year, all the better – just don’t expect me to join in the grinning idiotry. 

Up until now there has never been an impressive third act to any of our Boston Children’s Holiday Gatherings. I tend to spend all my social niceties on that Saturday, and it takes enough out of me that I rarely join in the brunch festivities on the day after. Part of me also hates sad Sunday goodbyes, so I’d rather pull an Irish exit and not have to do any of the sad stuff. A quick wave over my shoulder without turning back, a la Liza Minelli’s turn in ‘Cabaret’, is my idea of an extended farewell. 

But this year everything is different, and after being away from these friends for so long, I wanted to extend our time together. Besides, Cormac made reservations, so there would not be the chaos of an unplanned expedition (which I would have definitely avoided at all costs). And so I rose early and made it over to the breakfast place, where they had staked out an agreeable place that was playing the final World Cup game (and a dog show!) 

This marvelous group of friends had put on the t-shirts I’d given out as semi-silly gag gifts, and were wearing them to breakfast with this website emblazoned upon the front. It was almost enough to make a sentimental chap well up with tears. 

I sat down and was soon joined by Riley, who remains my spirit animal. Back in 2016 we met at Rehoboth Beach, where she offered sass, sass and more sass, and even when it was directed at me, I had to admire it, thus branding her my spirit animal. I saw shards and slivers of my own prickly heart in her defiance, and as much as I understood what heartache and trouble might result from it, I also knew it might be the gutsy glory that sees her through this wayward world. It’s already wonderful watching how she grows into who she is destined to be. 

I’d also seen similar magic in Julia, though of a completely different sort. She provided the necessary comic relief of the morning with a spilled cup of tea, something I managed to capture a bit of while taking video of all the shirts, then realizing we should probably check to make sure she was ok. (She was – no children were burned in the making of this blog post.) Clearly I’m still new at taking care of the kids at all the times. 

In the same way, I’m brand new at the World Cup, which it turns out only happens every four years, and yet no one sees fit to craft a halftime show for the world stage. Quite a lost opportunity. It was playing on the televisions, and we eventually ended up in one of the hotel rooms watching the end of it play out. 

It went into overtime, or whatever the extra minutes and sudden-death shoot-out term is, pushing Anu and Cormac’s family to the very end of their schedule in getting to the airport on time. When the final screams and tears of Argentina’s epic win died down, a shout went out and the entire room went into a frenzy of packing and cleaning, the likes of which I’ve not seen outside of slapstick movies. I took a video to capture the hilarity (I would have only gotten in the way if I’d tried to help.) It was the best ending to a weekend that went from crappy to happy in the most glorious of ways. Somehow it reminded me of the joy we felt in our early twenties – when we’d just be sitting around some dilapidated kitchen table, talking about nonsense and trying to figure out the world around us, fumbling through the best way we knew, and coming back together at the end of a day or week and finding solace and comfort with each other. 

The day that the twins and I were scheduled to drive to Boston was last Friday – the same day that some horrendous snow event was scheduled to take place – dropping anywhere from 0 to 20 inches precisely in the path of where we needed to go. On Thursday afternoon, there was talk of school and office closings, and I knew the only way to guarantee my presence in Boston would be to leave that night. With all my other friends coming from places as far as Virginia, Maryland, and California, I had to be there. Sadly, that meant the twins could not join as they couldn’t get away a night early. Such was the way the world seemed to be going lately, and as I drove into the stormy night, my heart was heavier than it had already been. The ride did not help matters, as treacherous weather had already started setting up in the form of rain and high winds, just as I entered the Berkshires (not even an hour into the journey). 

When the lights of Boston finally crept into blurry and hazy view, my relief was palpable, and for a moment the skies seemed to clear just a bit. I dropped off my things then parked the car in a nearby garage in the event that there was snow. Hurrying home in the rain and wind, I shut the door behind me and melted into the comfort of the condo in a storm. 

The next day, I assembled the food and decorations and gift bags, and waited for the arrival of the families. The weather was still iffy, and flights were being delayed and canceled. Anu and her daughters were part of a delayed flight, while Cormac made it in a day or two beforehand. Chris was on a train from New York with his son Simon, while Suzie, Pat, Oona and Milo would drive over later that day. Kristen and Julia were not sure until the last minute they could attend, and Tommy, Janet, Mady and Logan were out with sickness. I ran a few quick errands, then set up for a day of waiting and anticipating, coupled with a rare indulgence in nostalgia. 

My history with this group of kids goes back to their births – I’ve known them longer than they’ve known themselves. For many of them, my first gift was a miniature mirrored disco ball – and babies absolutely love the play of light and sparkle that result. The joys and bonuses of having an honorary guncle in the family…

We first vacationed together in Rehoboth back in 2016, where the below photo was taken. Looking at it now, I’m amazed by how much they’ve all grown. 

Only a couple of years later, they were already changing and growing up even more, proof of the vicious march of time, but reassuring in that this might be our future. 

As my friends made it through the wild and wintry weather into Boston, we set up a late-dinner for those who could make it – about half of our crew – and once again, the familiar sensation of being surrounded by safe and supportive people who have known you for more years than they haven’t suddenly carved away at my chilly, inconsolable heart. 

The next day we assembled at the condo, give or take a few family members, and posed for posterity – a photo I will one day look back upon and marvel at how young we once were. 

The afternoon ripened into evening as we all caught up on two or three years of being away from each other. There was something slightly sad in thinking of how much we had missed, texting and online connections being tenuous at best and completely disjointed at worst, but overriding all of that was the comfort and ease of being around a group of people I’ve known since 1995. 

These are the people who have seen me at my absolute worst – and never judged or thought less of me for any of it. We’ve seen each other through marriages, deaths, births, break-ups and break-downs, and this is the group that will always be family to me. 

Now that their kids are getting old enough to hold an adult conversation, things are getting more interesting and enjoyable. While the parents may be weary of the drama and the conflict that being a teenager consists of, I am absolutely loving it. Distance lends enchantment. 

And while teenage trauma may be irritating to some, each and every one of these kids is turning into an impressive young adult, with more poise, self-possession, and self-confidence than I ever had. I can’t imagine what it takes to be a kid growing up today, and my heart breaks a little every time I see the news or hear of something that students have to deal with – so I hoped this little weekend gathering was a balm on any worry or stress they might have. It had already worked its magic on me. 

One of Simon’s gifts (recommended by his father) was a set of nail polish in varying shades of blue and green. I sought out anyone who had a knack for painting fingernails, and Riley volunteered, producing the wondrous results you see below. Simon got a matching set, and for one almost-winter’s night all was right with the world. 

{To be continued…}