The Christmas season has always been my favorite.

Growing up Catholic and attending Catholic school, this time of year arrived wrapped in anticipation, reverence, and joy. The celebration of Jesus’ birth, paired with the innocent excitement of childhood, still causes me to wax nostalgic in my now very grown-up mind. I can still see the nuns, patient and meticulous, creating stained glass windows out of cellophane and construction paper, carefully pasting them onto our classroom windows. To my classmates and me, they were nothing short of magical.

As children, we thrilled in the joy of Jesus’ birth—and yes, the long-awaited visit from Santa Claus. When Christmas vacation ended, we returned to school buzzing with stories of what St. Nick had left behind. It was a sacred and exciting time.

Christmas mornings in my home were filled with pure anticipation. There were four of us children, and falling asleep quickly felt like an annual ritual—our way of willing morning to arrive sooner. The smells of breakfast evolved over the years: bacon and eggs, pancakes and waffles, then bagels with lox and cream cheese, influenced by our Jewish neighborhood upbringing. Later came more “sophisticated” additions—plum pudding with hard sauce and oyster stew both my father’s favorites….us kids not so much. I honestly don’t know how my parents did it, hiding gifts, wrapping in secret, preparing the holiday feast while working and going to school at night,as they studied for masters degrees.

Some Christmases were more abundant than others, but by the time we’d moved to Manhattan, the holidays took on a new flavor. Shopping at Zabar’s on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, for Christmas meals became a cherished ritual—one my father absolutely relished. However, somewhere along the way, the meaning of Christmas began to shift for me.

Family and friends—college friends, and boyfriends—joined us on Christmas Day. Gift-giving became less about receiving and more about discernment, intention, and joy. I was working now, and I loved being the giver. Watching my younger siblings’ faces light up brought me a quiet sense of fulfillment I hadn’t known before. Those days with my parents, my nana, and my siblings remain among my most treasured memories.

But life, keeps life-ing, reminding me that nothing remains the same.

As my parents got older, my husband and I became the hosts for Christmas dinner. My grandmother passed on, and with her loss came the realization that change leaves marks we don’t expect. These losses slowly became a shadow backdrop to my life. As time moved forward, Christmases of the past transformed into memories that were both joyful and painful.Then my father was gone, and later, my husband.

Out of necessity—and love—new traditions were born, shaped with the help of my son and my siblings. Christmas now holds space for remembrance. We share stories of those we’ve loved and lost, weaving their presence into our gatherings in quieter, more tender ways. And still—the spirit of Christmas endures.

The reason for the season, the birth of Jesus, reminds me that we are always being offered the possibility of beginning again. New chapters. Rebirth. Renewal. These are available to all of us, as long as we don’t allow our losses to extinguish our spirit.

Today, when I gather with family and friends, I am keenly aware of who is missing. But I also take comfort in who remains—those who help create new traditions as we celebrate the birth of Christ, walk in His footsteps, and pray unceasingly for light at the end of what often feels like a very dark tunnel—especially here, in 2025.

And yet, I see the light.

Christmas reminds me that all is not lost. We must keep our eyes on the star. It is there—and it is growing brighter. Love, peace, and hope are woven into the story of Jesus’ birth, and they call us to hold fast to our faith, even when grief tries to loosen our grip.

May we never lose sight of that light.

Merry Christmas.