By John Kass

December 24, 2023

For all the children who should be loved always, but especially on this night, with our arms wrapped around them and a long goodnight kiss on the temple, a kiss more precious than anything wrapped in a box.

For every parent who stands quietly in the darkened doorways of the bedrooms, watching those small, sleeping shapes.

For all the babies who aren’t loved enough and grow up with a hard crust around their hearts because there was no one near to plant those kisses and give those hugs. And for every couple so full of love, they adopt a child and save that life.

And for every young mother who has given her baby up for adoption, to save that life growing inside of her. For all those who couldn’t have children of their own. For those who’ve lost their children. For all who’ve lost their moms and dads. For the moms and dads who give everything to keep their family close.

For that young woman in pain, physical and spiritual pain wanting so much to become a mother and bear a child. She has become weak under the strain.  But she won’t quit. She wants to become a mom. Those others of us who know her pray she’ll come through this, because she has the grace to become a good and wonderful mom.

And for that man in the hospital facing heart surgery, that foot-doctor who has taken such good care of so many of us. It’s time to take care of yourself.

For those crazy uncles who always drink too much tonight, then sneak outside to put on the red suit in the driveway, hopping on one leg, falling in the snow, laughing out there in the cold, before coming back in to surprise the kids.

For those wise aunts who make sure that coffee is strong and black, to help those crazy uncles sober up.

And for everyone in every choir in the world. They’ve been practicing for weeks in cold, empty churches. And so tonight is their night too, their beautiful voices lifting us up with song, inviting us to humble ourselves as we ask for help in scraping away any bitterness that has grown like a hard bark around our hearts.

For the Sunday school teachers forced to separate the angry lambs from the angry shepherds with their shepherd’s crooks in the hallway, right before the Christmas Pageant.

For all those who love you and your children, and don’t wait for a special night to begin building the family. They show up unannounced on some random afternoon in June, or on a cool morning in November– with a coffee cake from your favorite bakery–dropping by just to make sure that you’re OK.

So, tonight is for them, and tomorrow, too, because they are family by friendship and by blood. They are family by the acts of family.

For all the young who are lonely and feel lost and don’t know why. For all those who are far away and can’t make it home this year. For those who are physically near, yet distant in so many other ways, believing that the bad choices they’ve made have locked the door against them.

And for the prodigals at the eleventh hour, wondering if they may ever return home again.

Don’t be afraid, because there is good news!

Tonight is the night that all lost lambs are found. Tonight is the night of new hope for the world.

The door is always open.

Just reach for it and see.

For the good people who help others first. For the children who are hungry and for those who feed them. For the selfish and the mean-spirited, as well as for the good and the kind. Because we’re all hurting somehow. We’ve all been broken, or we’ve come close to breaking. All of us.

And somehow, we must learn to forgive and embrace and love each other. The rabbi, the carpenter’s son reminded us what to do thousands of years ago when he reminded us to love our neighbor.

For the shy ones who aren’t part of the ruling clique at work, who aren’t pushy, but just don’t know how to put themselves forward and make themselves noticed. They’d rather not push themselves forward, especially if that meant pushing someone out of the way. They would not demand a spotlight.

But they would stun you with their commitment and talent if only given half a chance.

For every old man at the end of the bar tonight, nursing his drink, grateful to sit a warm, clean and well-lighted place and hear the sounds of life going on around him.

For every old woman alone tonight, wide awake in her bed staring at the ceiling, remembering the laughter of children on nights just like this one, when there was so much work to do and a houseful of guests to feed.

For all our four-legged friends who just know it when you’ve received very bad news and know what you need. They lean against your leg, or just nuzzle.

But some, like a stubborn dog I know, still hasn’t quite been forgiven for that Christmas Eve years ago when his muzzle wasn’t white and his humans—with no room in the fridge–put the big punchbowl of boozed-up homemade eggnog out on the table on the deck, nestling it in the snow to keep it cool.

And later, someone let that dog out, but his human didn’t know he was out there, and so the dog known to many as Zeus the Wonder Dog stuck his big stubborn head deep into the punch bowl to gulp down that spiked eggnog. He lapped and lapped. And he lapped some more.

When his master confronted him, Zeus slowly lifted his head out of the bowl, buzzed and somewhat surprised, homemade eggnog dripping from his face. He wagged the stub of his tail as if to say “Man, you’ve got to have some of this. It’s so darn tasty.”

It was a good thing dogs can’t drive, because Zeus couldn’t walk a straight line.

And for everyone on the night shift tonight, and those who must work tomorrow, all the first responders—the paramedics, firefighters and police–and the families and friends, especially their children, nieces and nephews waiting for them to come home safe.

And that Chicago Paramedic Chief who thinks about the people who were under his command, and how they all dealt with the pain and thinks about them tonight.

For all the kids cut down in the street gang wars in violent big cities, with politicians cynically bartering away the public’s safety in the pursuit of power and votes from those who do violence against the innocent.

For all the cops of these broken cities who can’t bear what such brutal politics have brought and internalize it and poison themselves and seek an exit. Please don’t. Please don’t go. Reach out, ask for help. There are priests to talk to, your colleagues. Remember that help is out there, and you are loved. And remember, the people need you and rely on you to protect them.

For everyone who waits for that call from the doctor only to feel the flutter of dark wings. For the physicians who have waited for such a call, knowing how it goes.

For everyone in hospital tonight praying for dignity, relief from pain, and a peaceful end without shame or suffering. For the families and friends who comfort them and mourn them. For their physicians who tend them.

For every nurse who enters a quiet room, pulls up a chair and listens to a quiet confession. For the physical, operational and language therapists who never let their patients quit on themselves.

For all the clergy who’ve struggled with their faith, yet who find it again and who are renewed.

For every sailor at sea standing watch tonight, staring out at cold black water, and remembering brightly lit rooms.

For every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who protect us. And for those of the U.S. Foreign Service and the Intelligence Services who walk into the shadows alone to protect this great nation.

For the American republic, the last, best hope of liberty on earth. And for the American people, who never, ever quit.

Many of us have thought of quitting lately, to avoid the dangerous buffoonery on both sides of this jagged political divide that tears our nation apart. But we must not ever think of quitting.  Our republic is worth saving. American liberty is worth saving. America is worth saving. If not us, then who?

For all those who despair, remember this: We are Americans. And we Americans find a way.

To all those whom I’ve hurt with thoughtless words, I apologize. Yes, it troubles me. Because I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to reconcile this writer’s life that sets me to make some hard judgements against those who hurt others, and then and balance all that against my Orthodox Christian faith which tells me to leave the judgements to God.

I worry that I’ll become blinded by zeal or by pride and lock the gates of heaven against myself. We become like barking dogs frightened by the night.

But it is by the love of Christ, prayer and faith that we’re given the opportunity to unlock those gates.

For every one of you who has joined me here in supporting this great new adventure. I am overwhelmed. I almost gave up and quit writing. But those of you who subscribed just wouldn’t let me give up. You gave me the precious gift of responsibility, of a task, of purpose. My family and I can’t ever thank you enough.

And for all those across the world who know what is most important on this special night.

It is that simple message brought to us by that perfect child born in the manger in Bethlehem so long ago.

He is the gift. He came to light the world.

He is all about love.

I pray that love comforts you and remains.

From our family to you and yours.

Merry Christmas.

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(Copyright2023JohnKass)