I never expected, on the First Monday of Advent, to be sitting in a small church in rural Pennsylvania, squeezed between my husband and daughter, waiting for a funeral procession to begin. I should have been at school, reviewing the homework with my freshmen or on a break, contemplating which treat to bake for the neighborhood cookie swap. Instead, I was in the fifth pew, silently preparing what to say to comfort my grieving sister-in-law on her father’s sudden death.
When word came that the older man had passed, my sister-in-law said that, having lived a life of faith, her father was prepared to meet the Lord, though she struggled to let him go. Friends expressed great sympathy to the family, whose hearts were even heavier with the loss so close to Christmas. Though it would have been difficult to lose him at any time, the absence was felt much more deeply now as everyone else seemed caught up in holiday joy. The sadness permeating St. Mary’s Church contrasted deeply with what was supposed to be an Advent filled with hope. The experiences of that day, however, helped me realize that it still was.
Though the mood was somber, the church itself and the simple décor around it were not. From that fifth pew, I had a clear view of the Advent wreath, with one tall purple candle faintly glowing, sitting beside the podium. The Giving Tree, with a few tags still dangling, stood near the statue of St. Joseph. Several gifts, neatly wrapped, were already placed beneath it. When we had entered the church, a manger, empty except for stray pieces of hay, rested near the front steps, ready to welcome the holy family. Parishioners here had begun preparing for Jesus’ birth, just weeks away, and ensuring that children in the community would find joy under their own tree. Of course they had, I thought, for despite the grief, despite the darkness, it is still Christmas.
I remember feeling similarly during the pandemic when we spent the holidays apart from loved ones, many even unable to attend Mass. Though anxiety and uncertainty surrounded us, it was still Christmas. The following year, when I lay bedridden, weak with an unexplained illness, I felt the shadows more than the light.
Nevertheless, it was still Christmas. Christ would come, as he always does, and that alone is reason to celebrate.
Like that empty manger outside the church, one that may be cold and dark, we know through our faith as Catholics that it will soon be filled with joy and a holy presence when Jesus, the light of the world, is born. No illness, no grief, no pandemic can prevent Christ’s coming and assuring a blessed Christmas for all.
As we prepared to head home later that day, I told my brother we would understand if they couldn’t make it up to Connecticut for our holiday dinner. He nodded. When I embraced my sister-in-law, however, she smiled and said, “We’ll see you at Christmas.” My heart rejoiced, and I prayed that, through the darkness, she would hear the hosts proclaim, “Christ is born in Bethlehem! Hark—the herald angels sing, Glory to the newborn King!”
