I had an uncle who grew up during the Depression with alcoholic parents. He practically raised himself. It sounds strange, but WWII and the army saved him. It was during that time he met my aunt.
After hearing the stories from his childhood, my aunt vowed to create the home life for him and their children that he never had. Part of that was creating Christmas magic. Christmas Mass was important to them, but so were Christmas decorations, music, and gift-giving. Being a first-generation Italian American, every Christmas Eve my aunt made spaghetti from scratch with homemade sauce, meatballs, sausage, and a bit of pork for extra flavor.
After my husband and I moved from the Midwest to the West, it was to my aunt and uncle’s house that we went to for Christmas Eve. When we had kids, we went to an early children’s Mass and then made the drive through the desert to their home.
Those were the most spiritual, magical drives of my life. Saguaro silhouettes against a myriad of colors at sunset; and as darkness descended, the stars appeared. Stars above the desert shine brighter than one can see in cities or where the sky is cloudy. As we listened to Christmas music, I would look out the car window and imagine another desert a world and centuries away where the brightest, most important star had shown.
When we arrived at their house, the first thing we saw were luminaries lining their sidewalk. My uncle called them his contribution to Christmas. He grew from the boy who missed Christmas magic to a man who helped create it. Because my parents always welcomed people who had nowhere else to go on holidays, I was used to being the host, but it meant the world to me that my aunt and uncle adopted us into their family traditions. Their family was as close to my immediate family as I could get.
My aunt and uncle have been gone for a long time now, and my kids are adults, but I still remember the magic of that drive through the desert, the love they shared, and the light they gave us.