The Christ-child lay on Mary’s lap,
His hair was like a light.
(O Weary, weary were the world,
But here is all alright.)
– G. K. Chesterton, A Christmas Carol

Ice rattled the window pane, and snow dusted the sill. William flopped into a weathered, leather armchair and eyed his bookshelf. The Physics or the Meno? Definitely the Physics.

As a distant bell tower tolled the quarter hour, he tossed the book aside. How weary, yes, weary was he tonight. Running his hand through his hair, he tried to begin again. But his thoughts and eyes turned towards the window. The golden glow of a lamppost pierced the night. William stood. He caught up a coat from beside the door. A walk would clear his head.

The boy with the fiery hair. . . where was he now? He had hardly seen him since they both arrived at college. They had been so close. He missed the conversations they used to have and the long walks. He especially missed his knowing chuckle and his laugh. For years they had dreamt about beginning this next chapter together. He hadn’t expected the boy to forget him so quickly.

He had plenty of new friends. Things were so fast-paced now, and there was hardly a dull moment. So why this pang of sadness? He clutched the lapels of his peacoat as he descended the lamp-lined footpath. The stillness of the night had a familiar sweetness, but the breeze carried with it a sobering bite. His boot sent a stone skipping down the hill.

A nearby weeping willow stirred in the breeze. The sound was soft and pleasant like the wind chime from the front porch back home. It all came rushing back. He could hear the creak of the screen door and smell of summertime low country boil. He and the boy would run through the kitchen barefoot, and the rusty spring would hold the screen door wide for a long second or two. Then it would slam with a sudden crash. They’d race to the pond, and the sidewalk would burn their feet. It would still be warm at dusk when the street-lamps turned on.

He remembered the final Sunday evening before leaving for college. Night prayer had just ended. He and the boy sat around the family’s rusty fire pit. Williams’ hands were sticky. Their discarded marshmallow skewers were coaxing the glowing embers back to life. Hoarse and tired, they both leaned back in their camper chairs and gazed at the stars—until William leaned too far. The chair collapsed and sent him sprawling into the wet grass. He had laughed so hard that he cried, and the boy laughed with him. Then, they lay there in silence for what felt like hours. You could see the Milky Way that night.

What had changed? William looked back up the path. A lamp beyond the hill twinkled like a star. It was snowing harder now. For a time he stood there, motionless. Then, he turned away.

Something in the path made him stumble, and he caught himself. Before him rose a heavy oak door, set in a tower of granite. It was like the keep of a medieval fortress, the heart of communal life in a bygone age. It would be warm inside. Yet he had gone out to clear his head. A few moments of distracted prayer wasn’t bound to do much good. He didn’t have that sort of time, and besides, he would be here in the morning for Mass.

Once again, a feeling of weariness came over him, and he took a step towards the path. But the storm had turned to sleet, and the wind tore at his face. The old chapel was more inviting than any alternative. He grasped the wrought-iron ring with both hands and gave it a turn. The hinges swung the great door with ease. William ran his hand through his wet hair.

His eyes opened. Across the aisle, the outline of dark stained-glass blended with the stonework in a wash of grey. Votive candles cast flickering shadows and reached for the star-speckled vault above.

Against his clenched hands, his own breath felt warm. His mind churned. Thoughts crested, broke, and rolled past before he could make sense of them. He looked out for relief. Fresh-cut flowers had been arranged beneath the altars and surrounded the crèche. Someone had taken great care with the task.

Then he realized he was not alone. The Boy leaned upon a choir stall just before the Virgin’s altar. His hair glowed in the light of the sanctuary lamp like a crown. He gazed upon William gently.

“It’s good to see you, my friend.”
“Same. It has been too long.”
There was a long pause. The wind moaned, and the roof creaked.

“Things have been busy, I know. It’s hard to make the time. But, William, I am here every night.”
“Like you promised. I’m embarrassed to say, I’d forgotten.” 
“You’re here now.”  
“Yes . . .”
The chapel was still. Drips from a leaky radiator counted long seconds.

“You’ll come again?”
“Maybe. Honestly, probably not anytime soon—time is just so short these days. And I have to keep grinding if I want to stay ahead.”
“I see.”
“You understand, don’t you?”
The Boy made no reply, but gave a weak smile. His eyes looked tired.

William got up to leave.
“It’s great to see you. I mean it. We’ll catch up sometime, okay!”

His boots rang out on the frozen stone as he turned away. Candles trembled as the wind swept in, and the bolt of the great door clattered shut.

✠

Photo by Br. Seth Bauer, O.P. (used with permission)