A candle for Henry

I attended Christmas Eve service this evening from my hotel room in Grand Rapids. I admit it was kinda neat to be in my pajamas, propped up by pillows, worshiping. I've attended Zoom church before, but I've never been this casual about it. At home, I'm always at my dining room table, and I'm never in my pjs.

The informality made it easy for me to be distracted. For example, when the choir began singing "Veni, Emmanuel," I opened another window and checked my Facebook feed. I flashed back to all those Christmas Eves I worshiped with Henry in Key West. He would not have approved of my flippancy. Raised Catholic, schooled by Jesuits, he respected all aspects of a church service and loved a hymn in Latin. When I didn't bother to stifle a yawn during the homily, I could feel Henry's side eye from above.

When we got to my favorite part of the Christmas Eve service – when the lights go down and we sing "Silent Night" by candlelight – I was rapt. But again, I was thinking more of Henry than the Christmas story. We sang the verse three times: first in English, then to show solidarity with our neighbors besieged by ICE we sang in Spanish, then we closed in English. Yes, from my tummy in my hotel room, I sang along. "Brilla la estrella de paz," or "the star of peace shines." 

Our minister told those in attendance: "As the candlelight in the sanctuary increases, so does the hope and courage and love that we bring to one another." In 2026, as we approach the midterms, I must do what I can to bring hope and courage and love to my fellow Americans. To see that the star of peace shines. That was my Christmas Eve takeaway. It may have been more obviously about Henry than the birth of the Christ child, but then again, who brought Henry into my life in the first place, and who is Henry with now? So it's full circle. It goes back to Christ exactly the way it's supposed to. 

When I'm away from home on Christmas – which has been more often than not these past 15 years – I always pack a teeny-tiny nativity scene for my nightstand. I will say a prayer tomorrow, as I do on hotel Christmas mornings. 

But that's Christmas morning. Tonight, Christmas Eve, is about candles and light and hope and courage and love. And Henry. His goodness and his example. I miss him desperately, but am grateful I knew him and am grateful that he's in Heaven and grateful I can carry him with me.

  

Photo by Kabir Tamang on Unsplash