John Kass: Oh, holy night

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

And for all the parents standing quietly in the doorways of the bedrooms, watching those small, sleeping shapes.

For all the babies who aren’t loved and may grow up with hard crust around their hearts, because someone didn’t plant those kisses and give those hugs.

For every couple who adopts a child to save a life. And for every young woman who has given up her child for adoption to save that life inside of her.

For couples who try to have children yet are unable. For those who’ve lost their children. For the children who’ve lost their moms and dads.

And for those crazy uncles who’ll drink too much tonight, and dance and tell wacky jokes, and then sneak outside to put on that red suit in the cold, and pound on a door to surprise the kids.

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

For all the men and women in all choirs of the world who’ve practiced for weeks on weeknights in cold, empty churches.

Because tonight is their night too, the night they’ve been waiting for, to lift us with song.

And for their beautiful voices that invite us to humble ourselves, as we ask for help in scraping away any bitterness that has taken root over the year.

For all the good friends and relatives who don’t wait for a special night to begin building a family. All year they’ve been building the family, with their love and time.

They show up on some Thursday afternoon in June, or on a cool morning in November, dropping by just to see if you’re OK. And you feel peace at their approach.

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

For all who are far away and can’t make it home.

And for those who are near yet distant in so many other ways. They fear they’ve locked the door behind them, and they worry, hopeless about ever returning home.

But tonight is the night of new hope in the world.

And the door is always open.

Just reach for it and see.

For the quiet, shy ones at work who aren’t part of the ruling clique, yet who would stun you with their grace and talent if they were given a chance.

And for the old guys at the end of the bar nursing drinks, half-watching the TV, men alone and grateful for a warm place to sit, where they can hear sound of stray laughter.

For the old women alone in their rooms, awake in their beds, staring at the ceiling, remembering such nights past and the laughter of children, when there was so much to do and a house of hungry guests to feed.

For the parents who are overwhelmed, out of work or underemployed, good people stressed over paying their bills, yet who refuse to let their children see their fear.

And for their children, who pretend not to have seen.

For those who’ve received that call from the doctor, and knew bad news was coming even before they heard the words.

And for everyone on the night shift tonight, and those who must work tomorrow, and all first responders. For their families, waiting for them to come home.

For everyone in a hospital tonight praying for dignity and relief, and an end without shame or suffering. For their physicians who care for them.

For the nurses who enter the quiet rooms, pull up a chair, to hear quiet confessions.

For the clergy who have struggled with faith yet find it again and are renewed.

And for every sailor at sea tonight, on watch, staring into cold black water, remembering brightly lit rooms.

For the members of the U.S. Armed Forces who protect us with their lives. For the members of the U.S. Foreign Service and intelligence services who work alone in bleak, unknown places, dealing with liars in the shadows, risking themselves for us and our nation.

For America and our people, who never, ever quit.

For the souls lost in the fires, in the hurricanes and from violence on the streets of our great cities.

For Madison, the Anatolian shepherd dog from Paradise, California. After the fires, the dog, ever faithful, stayed out there for weeks, alone, guarding what was left of his family’s home.

To all whom I’ve hurt with needless and strident words on my worst days. I’m sorry.

For everyone who keeps hold on what is important about this very special night:

It is the message brought to us by that perfect child, born in a manger in Bethlehem so very long ago. He came to light the world.

He is the gift.

And it is all about love.

And I hope it comes to you, and comforts you, and remains.

Merry Christmas.