The True Meaning of Christmas

Where was my mom? Usually, she would meet me at baggage claim. I vacillated between looking at the revolving luggage belt and scanning the crowd. Aching from a non-reclining seat on a seven-hour flight to JFK airport, my heart sank as big shouts of joy, balloons, and hugs came from parents reunited with their college kids home for Christmas. Why wasn’t my mom here doing that for me? Maybe she’s stuck on the Long Island Expressway. But it was 12:30 am, unlikely. Please, dear Lord, she hasn’t had an accident.

It was 1975. I jammed coins into a pay phone, only to get her answering machine. Grabbing my suitcase, I stood in the taxi line, thankful to afford a cab to the train station. I tried to ease my mind, but peace didn’t come, only continual questions. I quickly thanked God for the next train, due in ten minutes.

Arriving in Smithtown, I was relieved to see a police car. Out of money, I poured out my story to the policeman. It was now 2:30 a.m. I could have hugged him when he offered to take me home.

My mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway, and the house was dark. Officer Riley took out his flashlight and walked me to the door. Stepping in, I tried to turn on the lights, but they didn’t work. Dread enveloped me in a tight embrace.

My skin felt clammy even though it was 32 degrees. What was that smell? “Mom?” I yelled out. Nothing. We went into the kitchen and then her bedroom. Everything looked normal. He suggested I call some hospitals, and I was relieved to learn she wasn’t at the two local ones. He suggested I call my mom’s friends.

“Pat, I’m so sorry for calling so late. It’s Lisa, Marjorie’s daughter.” It must have been after three a.m. “I just got to my mom’s house and…”

“Oh, Lisa.” Her voice was sad and heavy.

I froze, breathlessly waiting for the news. No, no, she isn’t dead. Please, God, tell me she isn’t dead. “What? What happened?”

“Your mom had a fire in the house. She’s at the Marriott on the Expressway.”

“Fire? Is she all right?”

“Yes, but in a bit of shock.”

After explaining, Officer Riley drove me to the hotel and briefed the hotel night manager, who broke protocol by giving me her room number. I profusely thanked Officer Riley, then practically ran with my baggage akimbo and knocked loudly at her room.

I wish I could say I lovingly greeted my mom and hugged her immediately. But I didn’t. The reality of her possible death fueled my fear and anger. I yelled, “Mom! You scared me to death!”

She looked lost, her eyes heavy with tears and bewilderment. All the tension, fear, and anxiety disappeared as I fiercely embraced her. She was alive! She escaped with no burns. She was here with me. Thank you, God!

Later, I would contemplate Mary’s three-day search for Jesus in the temple.

“Son,” his mother said, “why have you done this to us? Your father and I have been frantic, searching for you everywhere.” 

Depending on how you interpret it, Mary could’ve said this with anger or compassion. I believe Mary chose compassion. To my dismay, I chose the former.

There was no tree, no presents, no homemade food, only a cold, unadorned hotel room with a cat litter box in the bathroom. My mom left a note on the door: ‘Don’t let the cat out.’ It was a different homecoming.

My mom received an unexpected invitation for us to join their family for Christmas Eve dinner. All seven family members welcomed us like long-lost cousins. In the corner gleamed a floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree with handmade ornaments. A roaring fire warmed us to our bones, and the enticing aroma entreated our taste buds.

The table was a plethora of red, green, and white, with candles glowing. I noticed that each place setting had several forks and spoons. We had never experienced the Feast of the Seven Fishes.

Our hosts, Maria and Luca, explained that it is their Catholic tradition to abstain from meat on Christmas Eve. Luca led the grace, blessing us for joining the family on this extraordinary night. My mom, brother, and I shed tears of gratitude and joy.

One delicious homemade course after fantastic course came. The delectable recipes filled us, along with the storytelling, laughter, and love that accompanied each bite.

Years later, when my mom passed away, Maria and Luca came to her funeral. They shared that opening their home to us was the best Christmas they ever had. Their eyes watered as they said, “For us, it brought the true meaning of Christmas.”

I always remembered their loving care. It reminded us not to focus on the present situation but to let Jesus enter our hearts amid strife and know he will send angels in our path to comfort us—and later when we can, for us to go and do likewise. Loving our neighbor, this is the true meaning of Christmas.

May angels comfort you, surrounding you with hope, light, and cheer.

Merry Christmas to you and yours!