Christmas Eve does that.
At our church, candles are aglow. Music fills the small venue. There are pews that serve as seats when most of the year they remain empty. There is a crispness to the night air, yes, even in Los Angeles.
Christmas Eve does that.
Several years ago, there was even a bit of a miracle around this place. At around 5PM that Christmas Eve, some high winds knocked out an electrical transformer and pretty much darkened a good portion of Los Angeles' West Side. My apartment was as black as night. So was my church about five miles away.
Without power, our building's garage gate wouldn't even open. I started to panic as the hour drew near for our 10PM service. Somebody jammed open the gate and I could eventually leave. On my route to church, I drove through neighborhoods without lights and others that were completely illuminated.
The area around the church had no electricity, but, as I turned the corner, I saw our place of worship fully lit. Except there was no power. There were so many candles stoked inside that you could see the glow for a mile. Indeed, it was probably a big, old fire hazard. But, we needed to light the way for the crowd that did come regardless.
Christmas Eve does that.
I suppose your life comes in phases. But there is a constant throughout and it's Christmas Eve, especially if you celebrate it. I'm in the West Coast phase of my existence and I can't fathom not being at my church on this night. Helping to decorate the altar. Doing the Gospel reading, which is always that same darn passage that Linus read to Charlie Brown and the rest of the "Peanuts" gang. I'm so known for that now that my pastor actually gave me a Linus-dressed-as-a-shepherd doll.
Meanwhile, at the end of the service, the ushers help to light the candles of the congregation. Over the years, I have lit candles held by Harvey Korman, Anthony Franciosa, and Lukas Haas. Yes, even on this holiest of holy nights, there are celebrities out in Hollywood.
Silent Night plays at the end as the church is enveloped in darkness except for the brightened candle wicks. It remains my most touching moment of the year. You can hear it in the stillness. I remember the Christmas Eve that followed 9/11. Tears were audible in the quiet.
It's what happens.
A close friend of mine recently asked me why I don't ever spend Christmas Eve back in New York. The answer is simple and has nothing to do with the chance opportunity that I might get to light the candle of a "Carol Burnett Show" cast member.
It's simply the way I can appreciate Christmas Eve now. And, while my New York apartment can be quite cozy during the holidays, the last memories there were not good ones. Both of my parents had final illnesses that culminated around the holidays. I found out my father had three months to live on December 22. My mom, while in a hospital with a broken hip, had her heart stop on New Year's Eve. Because there was no DNR in place, she was brought back to ultimately pass away a week later.
Walking into the same apartment with the same tree that sported Christmas ornaments from my childhood would effectively not be the same. And a constant, nagging reminder of Christmas Eves best be forgotten.
So, I avoid the sensory perception and stay in Los Angeles. With my real tree and my family of friends there and my church illuminated to the sky.
But I can still enjoy the gloriously happy memories of Christmas Eves past.
I recall those as a kid. Not the ones when I eagerly awaited the arrival of Santa Claus. The years between the ages of five and twelve when our family was still intact and enjoying each other. Christmas Eve was always at a relative's house in the Bronx. But, first, I would go with my dad's cousin, Aunt Ollie, to our NY church's Christmas Eve service. We were the sole churchgoers in the group. And it was a special time that I won't ever forget, even if parts of the service were in German.
There was one Christmas Eve at St. Peter's Lutheran Church on 219th Street that I remember vividly. By this point, I was a freshman in college. I've written before of the girl I really, really liked from my Sunday School class. My first girlfriend, in fact. She and her family had moved away several years before. But I had not forgotten. As the story went in a previous blog entry...
Years later, I was in college but still hanging onto my childhood church. As I snooped around the guestbook in the vestibule one Sunday, I saw an eye popping entry dated the previous Christmas Eve. Her family had been there! And where had I been? At some relative's house watching a family argument.
Crap.
Of course, in college, I was already dwelling on the lost opportunities of my life. And there was nobody at Fordham who could hold a candle to her. I started to think. If her family had visited their old church one Christmas Eve, maybe it was a new tradition. It might have been July, but I already started to plan my outfit for December 24.
It couldn't have arrived more quickly. At Christmas Eve, I sat with my father's cousin, but she would easily be dispensed with if luck would....
....have it. There she was! Two pews over to the left.
"Joy to the World!"
After service, everyone mingled on the icy 219th Street. Even in the cold night air, she immediately recognized me. It was probably the first time she had ever seen in my shaving era. Lou Brock couldn't have moved faster as she came over. The hug couldn't have been warmer.
Her family busied themselves off to the side as we caught up. On high school. On college. She was going someplace in the boondocks of Pennsylvania. It was nice. It was easy. It was special. I asked for her address (pre e-mail days, sports fans) and she offered it willingly so we could stay in touch. Making more seasonal small talk, I inquired what she got for Christmas.
"Engaged."
She held up the ring for me to see.
Oh.
The snow flurries around me picked up with intensity as if my life was being orchestrated by a production manager for a Lifetime movie.
We parted company, pledging to stay in touch. After one written volley in the mail, it all ended.
In fact, that would be the last time I ever went inside that church. So, Christmas Eve would be changing anyway. There was no longer a family gathering in the Bronx. Older relatives had died. Younger relatives had stopped talking. And we all stayed in our homes to watch "White Christmas" with Bing and Danny.
When I became a young New York professional on my own Yonkers apartment, Christmas Eve became special again. One phase passing the torch to the next. One of my closest friends, Dolores, from childhood lived next door. And, regardless of what was going on in our lives, Christmas Eve was always with her and her then-husband. A nice dinner. Too much Kahlua. Wrapping the presents for my pseudo-nephew Jason. Eating the cookies he left for Santa. Moments I wouldn't trade for the world. Including one Christmas Eve that I wrote about before.
We were busy downstairs putting toys together and being genuinely silly. The giddiness of the holiday. The spike of the egg nog., Whatever. Well, we carried on till the wee hours of the morning. And woke up Jason who was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the fat guy with the toys.
"Uncle Lenny, go home! Santa won't come while you're still here drinking!"
And so, home I went.
There was one Christmas Eve that went totally off the rails during that "phase." I actually was a "plus one" at a Greenwich Village party full of Euro-trash. I was happy to be with the gal I came with, but the other merrymakers were way down on my food chain. There was no mistletoe. Only a bong and several joints that made the rounds. For me, thinking about the serenity of this night, it was all completely a violation of good taste.
Silent night, unholy night.
Indeed, it made me realize that Christmas Eve is a night for quiet. Or noise from friends you love and children who laugh with eager anticipation.
It's an evening for candles and Nativity scenes and a bunch of people singing "O Come All Ye Faithful" out of tune.
That's what I am enjoying in this most current phase.
And when our service at a Lutheran church is over. I go home after midnight. In time to enjoy my newest holiday tradition. Watching the taped service from St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. For an hour, I am happily and gloriously and inexplicably reveling in the Roman Catholic celebration of this night.
Yeah, Christmas Eve does that. For me.
Dinner last night: Bacon and cheddar cheese omelet.
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