Where are you Christmas?

I remember the hustle and bustle of dressing up in my finest before the mad dash to grab one of the last parking spots in the church for Midnight Mass. How early did people arrive to get a seat, I would wonder, as the clock just struck half past eleven. Still thirty more minutes before the service and the place was packed to the rafters.

Growing up Catholic in a predominantly French-speaking part of town (even though I was of Hungarian/Ukrainian background), meant that the Midnight Mass service was nearly two hours long, interspersed with Latin, French and English verses. I got by with my rudimentary French from high school and would mouth out the words slowly and deliberately to the hymns.

It would be so stuffy in the pews with the smell of alcohol and strong perfume, along with mothball scented fur coats way past their prime -  that often left me nauseous and looking for a quick escape route, only to be brought back to my senses when it was time to kneel and pray for forgiveness. I always prayed that I wouldn't faint before I got up to accept the host and repent my sins. 

After the long procession of yet more "Hallelujahs", everyone would forget whether they were supposed to stand or kneel or make the sign of the cross, that I would give a scowl or two to those that appeared to make a mockery of one of the most sacred nights of the year. This was the event that I had waited for, the booming voices of the well-tuned choir belting out "Silent Night, Holy Night" and someone off key always shouting louder than the choir.

I remember the hairs on my arms standing straight up when an Angelic voice would ring out in time with the chimes rung by the alter boys. Everyone would go silent to let the Priest dismiss the congregation and I could almost feel the spirit of a higher power brushing by each and every one of us. "Merry Christmas", "Peace be with you" we would shout in unison to all as we squeezed into our lines to depart. The parking lot was a chaotic mess of tangled red and gold lights blinking in turn as we snaked our way to the road. The neighbouring streets were alive with lights that shone brighter than before, and I would always gaze into the sky looking for that one special guiding star to lead me home. 


Once home, it was time to put the last minute presents underneath the tree. I would stay up longer than anyone else just to soak in the silence of Christmas Eve. "Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring..." would play in my head.


This year, I cannot bring myself to go to church. If I do, I would cry my eyes out at the thought that my Dad is no longer with us, and my almost 90 year old Mom is too frail to stay up that late. I know she misses the excitement I often felt, and also - my Dad. I will watch Midnight Mass services on the television, gaze at the golden stars that have often guided my faith and fill the stockings with trinkets for my daughters and husband.

Christmas morning I will wake up early and pour myself a cup of coffee to sit in solitude, and watch the birds feast on the food that I have hung up for them. And I will ask them, "where are you Christmas?" and wait for a reply.