The older we grow, the darker our holidays seem to get. But even at the ripe old age of 46, I still find moments of magic and wonder, especially on this most magical night of the year. While the world anxiously awaits the explosion of gifts and wrapping and mayhem on Christmas Day, it is the supreme calm of Christmas Eve that I’ve always enjoyed more, even as a boy.
A sense of serenity imbues the calm before the storm, and in many ways there’s no greater storm than Christmas morn. Christmas Eve is that pocket of time that suddenly feels hushed, not rushed – a break in the relentless lead-up to the main event, as if the world is slowly taking a deep breath before letting all hell break loose again.
In that quiet space and solemn time, my parents always took us to Christmas Mass, where I usually served as an altar boy. The packed crowd and their winter clothes darkened the cavernous place, lending a cozier atmosphere, one charged with the reminder of why we were all celebrating: the simple story of the birth of Jesus. A straw-laden manger, topped with evergreen boughs and twinkling lights, was populated by statues of the characters of the story – and for Christmas mass the baby Jesus finally made his miraculous appearance.
The message of this silent evening – the appearance of the miracle of hope and goodness, of light in the darkest night – always struck through all the wish lists and frantic running around that otherwise signaled the season. It grounded me, even as a child who could have been forgiven for flying off on childish fancies. Over the years, Christmas Eve retained that stillness and silence, even if it was fleeting, even if it came saddled with the growing pains of family and life and a world that felt increasingly hostile. For this one night, everything could be peaceful, everything calm.
