Christmas everywhere—streets blazing with light. Christmas in every shop window: tinsel and colored ornaments glitter even at the butcher's, the bakery, the supermarket.
Christmas, the feast of light and joy, the feast of family. That's what I see around me, what I feel, what I touch.
And me? I feel like a poor child—empty hands and a cold heart standing before this "Christmas display" that surrounds me: glittering and out of reach.
Even when Gerard was here...
The quiet family gatherings waiting for midnight Mass—I've never known them.
The walks to church, parents and children arm in arm, feet crunching in blue-white snow—I've never known them.
The returns home together to the warmth of the house and hot chocolate around the table—I've never known them.
We have never experienced these simple, natural joys that come so easily to so many families.
Now Gerard is in heaven, Taddèe is in a facility for the severely disabled, and Loic is in my arms. For me, Christmas has become a time of unbearable loneliness. Night falls and I see nothing. I call out and silence answers. I reach out my hands and touch nothing.
So if what Christmas means to everyone else means nothing to me, is Christmas still Christmas for me? Perhaps you want me to let go of this sweet Christmas custom altogether? Maybe then Christmas becomes something more than it was. But what, Lord?
Return to what matters: to the essential. I open the Gospels.
Matthew: "Behold, a virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and his name shall be called Emmanuel." Emmanuel means God with us. God with us?
Mark: "A voice cries out in the wilderness, 'Prepare the way of the Lord!'" You are coming. Coming for me?
Luke: "...by the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace...'"
Your visit to bring me light and peace?
John: "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us."
Dwelt among us? I am here. Loic in my arms. Among us? Where are you, Lord? I do not see you, I do not feel you, I do not touch you!
"If anyone loves me, he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our dwelling with him."
Loic accepts life with his whole being, with all his heart. Watch him in contemplation before a gleam of light, playing with water, savoring a cake, laughing out loud, raging and striking if he doesn't get what he wants. Loic loves life. And you said, "I am the Life."
And I love you too, even though I often balk like a mule before your demands and your calls that seem too much for me. Where would I go? You alone have words of eternal life. Loic, this small child so unattractive, this fragment of fragile flesh—in him your dwelling place?
"It is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Helper will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you." It's true. I do not see you, I do not feel you, I do not touch you. But your Spirit, Lord—your Spirit is here. You said it yourself: you are here, your Spirit dwells in us.
I believe, Lord. Come and help my weak faith.
Camille Proffit, 2002
