The last week or so has been unutterably hairy: one flippin' thing after another, culminating in a flat-out 48 hours of trying to get ready for Christmas--wrapping gifts, putting up the tree, trying to find the living room (it's under there somewhere). I'm dead tired and mildly strung out. Decided that a walk might help, so I put on my knapsack and winter stuff and trotted out, heading for downtown through a bright day and 6 inches of perfect new snow, to pick up this-and-that--ornament hooks, coffee, and pepperoni, to be specific.

The hardware store was loonytoons, of course; lengthy lineups of good-natured patient men in parkas buying knicknacks for their wives and of tired-looking women in cloth boots buying power tools for their menfolk. Picked up a last-minute gift for younger kid and stood in line, half-way between good will and screaming impatience --I'm normally reasonably good about waiting in line, but I was just too tired. Then to the grocery store: oh gawd, worse lineups... picked up my items, surveyed the check-out scene, and headed for Terri's cash.

Terri used to drive me a little bats in the Ladies Bible Study because she was so relentlessly upbeat about marriage: it was only a matter of being patient, loving, kind, and understanding, she said. Any marriage that failed simply showed that people hadn't been working hard enough. Instead of being irritated, I should have listened to the subtext: Terri's own marriage went kaput about 15 months ago, as best I can remember.

I usually head for Terri's cash, and we touch base often. I've watched as her face took on a pinched, grey look as she struggled with the new burdens of loneliness and poverty. We talked over my groceries as she hit the stage of anger and came through it. She's burst out with a quick bubble of pain now and again, hiding it quickly from the other customers. Lately, I've watched her bloom; she looks 20 years younger and very pretty as she's begun to come into her own. We aren't what you'd call close friend, but there's a definite bond of companionship and affection there.

Today, I found myself relaxing as she totalled my groceries and I packed them into my knapsack. I saw she had a button pinned to her cashier's red smock; it said "Jesus is the reason for the season." I said, "Isn't that neat! Where did you get it?" She'd been given it at her church, she said, and I said something about wishing I'd seen something like it. She unpinned it, and took my hand and put the button into it, closing my fingers over it and patting them. "Here, you have it now; it's your turn." I pinned it to my jacket and, on unspoken impulse, we reached across the check-out counter and hugged each other. The young man behind me in line, amused, leaned forward to read what the button said. His face softened, and he said "That's nice. I'll remember that."

I walked home slowly through the new snow. The shadows on it were blue--not the intense blue of early evening, but a delicate ice-blue --and the sky was broad and clear as a child's forehead. Tonight the stars will be out, and the Christmas lights will be about my path as I walk to Midnight Mass. And I think I will be able to accept their grace and be quiet in mind and soul, as the night is quiet here.

In every act of grace and generosity at this season, in every gift given in love, in every impulsive hug given and received in joy, in every light in the darkness, in every new child cradled tonight, in all good devotions and acts of liturgy, in music and mystery, we affirm what God told us in the birth of that child: love is indeed what's right. It is what we're supposed to be doing. Hold that thought close as a new child, as satisfying in the arms, with just that perfect warmth. Hold it to your breast and look at it, as Mary looked down at her new baby nursing. Don't put it down. It is the child God hands each one of us to hold, this holy night.

May each of us feel the breadth and height and depth and width of God's peace tonight.