When I was growing up, our Christmas Eve tradition started with going to church.
For us, that meant the First Parish Unitarian church located on the town green of our hometown in Lexington, Massachusetts. My mom, who bore some resemblance to Julia Child in size and manner, was no fan of organized religion—she described Christian dogma as “a bunch of whooey,” but First Parish offered an openness to all faiths, whether they were whooey or not. And when it came to Christmas Eve, there was no place better on Earth to get into the spirit of the holiday.
We’d huddle into our pew, my parents and four older brothers, each holding an unlit candle in the dimly-lit nave.
After singing a few carols, the minister would welcome us to the yearly candle lighting ceremony. He’d speak to the meaning of light, its warm beauty, its spiritual nature, and always conclude by saying, “It is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness.” Then, as we sang O Holy Night, the lighting of the candles commenced, one pew at a time, each person lighting the candle of the person next to them, and within minutes a whole constellation of candles illuminated our church — and yes, even our not very religious hearts.
I thought of those Christmas eve candle lightings a lot this year as we got together with our family — including all five grandchildren.
Gathering in one house these days is a miracle all by itself (last year was a ‘COVID Christmas,’ not to mention my son-in-law’s Norovirus). This Christmas was blessedly illness-free. We all had so much fun together, opening presents, playing games, going for walks, having raucous family dinners as the grandkids talked up a blizzard with their cousins.
The joy we experienced occurred during what I would charitably call a massive shit-storm: immigrant children across America being ripped from their parents arms, the tragic murder of Rob Reiner and his wife followed immediately by the President disparaging the couple on Truth Social, the mass-shooting of Jews in Australia, the mass-shooting of students at Brown University, War in Ukraine, and on and on and on. These are dark times indeed. And there we were, suddenly, all together in our living room by the Christmas tree.
The room was crowded, the grandkids boisterous and laughing, including baby Blythe (the youngest) taking her first steps as we all cheered her on. That room was full of so much light. So much love. It was our candle in the darkness.
As I look to the New Year, my goal is to carry that light inside me at all times, no matter what. But beyond that, I hope to spread more light through my actions and those of our larger family. Instead of buying multiple presents for each of our grown children and their spouses, my wife and I made donations to charities tailored to their interests (my daughter, who adores animals, was honored with a donation to an animal shelter).
Taking a page from the grandpa veterans I profiled in my Good Grandpa book, I plan to do a better job of serving the community as an extension of our family. I’m starting by offering a creative memoir writing seminar for veterans so they can learn how to tell their life stories. It’s not a heavy lift on my part (I still work full time). And not a whole church full of candles by any means. Just one. But it beats doom scrolling in the dark any day of the week.
