Christmas.

I am listening to Andrea Bocelli's Ave Maria. I love this song. And here is why:

I'm 6 or 7 years old. It's late for me and its Christmas Eve. Father Shea is standing at the altar, preparing the communion. I'm too young still to join the line of big people with their hands in small cups or their mouths ready to receive the body and the blood of Christ.

The pew is light oak, or at least that's what I think it is. I am searching through the psalm book for the proper page. People are looking straight ahead, heads slightly tilted back as they watch Father Shea for the thousandth time stretch his arms open, palms up as he turns his gaze heavenward and asks the Lord to bless the host and the wine.

"This is my blood. Drink from it and...." The rest has faded from my mind.

Bells ring. People start lining up. My favorite part of the Christmas sermon will be soon.

After the kneeling. Yes, after that. The choir starts. I lie down as the multitude stands. I love that I'm young enough to get away with lying on the pew and yet old enough to know that it won't be too much longer where I too will have to stand.

From my vantage point, I see our neighbor Mrs. Shea in her beat up old wool coat. Mr. Shea is at the back. He is in charge of parking and directing traffic and I think collecting keys as his key ring seems to get bigger and heavier every year.

My teacher is up there somewhere. I saw her walking in and going up the aisle. I wonder if she is going back to the school that night.

The notes of the song I'm waiting for are struck. My father. He takes a breath. And he leans his head back so slightly, and his eyes close. And I'm there, lying on the pew and this is what Christmas is to me. My father singing the Ave Maria.

People are looking at him. I wonder if they are listening to him hit the notes, every one of them. My mother glances over at him singing and in that little moment, there in her eyes I see her fall in love with him again. It's only a moment and its gone as she too is listening.

To me, God was using my father's vocal cords and sharing a little bit of heaven with us. I close my eyes and am lost in the sound of my father. Lost in a little bit of heaven, on a warm pew with my psalm book held tightly to my chest. Rustling of coats, the smell of wax and perfumes.

When its over, we all line up in our pews. I grab my dad's hand and smile at my sisters. We're all there, together.