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When Stephen was a baby, barely old enough to hold up his own head, his father had carried him into church on Christmas Eve and held him throughout the service. The familiar words of the priests and the swoosh of his father's heart washed over his baby ears and he had slept contently.
Tonight he is alone. Jon is in the kitchen with Elizabeth, helping prepare hot chocolate and cookies for after Mass. His family is far away, safe in Europe. He is alone in a sea of fellow believers, they move together, sing together, pray together. It's not the same. He would do anything for his father to be standing next to him.
He was five the first year his father didn't swing him up out of the snow for the walk from the car to church. "You're a big boy now, Stevie," his father had said, but he still held Stephen's hand until they were inside. It's the first Christmas Stephen really remembers. The snow was so white and clean on the church's grass and his breath hung in the air. Inside, the church was filled with warmth and light and people all dressed in their Sunday best. It was way past his bedtime and he fell asleep on his father's lap before the first Gospel reading, but he remembers how happy he had been.
Tonight he is awake. The lector is reading from Isaiah: "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; Upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a light has shone." It has been so dark lately. People dying right and left. A light would be welcome. Hope for a people without much reason to hope.
The first Midnight Mass he didn't sleep through was the first year he was old enough to take Communion. He remembers being so excited. He had stayed up late, finally being old enough to follow his brothers up to the altar. He had felt so old, so adult when the priest placed the wafer on his tongue.
Tonight Father Mark places the host in his hand. The people around him are almost family now. He has fed them and they had fed him. He shakes their hands and hugs them during the Peace. He has sung with them and them with him. He has even helped bury their children.
Stephen doesn't really remember the first Midnight Mass after his father and brothers died. His mother had cried and he had felt so small. They prayed for his father and brothers' souls, Stephen is sure, but he doesn't remember it.
Tonight he tries not to remember the dead bodies. The ones lying in the gutters. The ones hanging from trees. The ones who killed themselves. He'd never seen a dead body before this, not one outside a coffin, at least. Now he has seen dead children, dead women, dead men, dead people. So many dead people who should still be alive. People who should be sitting beside him, listening to the Christmas story with their friends and loved ones, who are instead interred in coffins deep beneath the ground.
He remembers holding his daughter at her first Midnight Mass. Her tiny baby fingers grasping his thumb as he held her against his heart. The sweet smell of her baby shampoo mixing with the candle wax and incense. The sure warmth of his wife by his side. He wonders if he will ever see them again, if he will get the chance to stand his daughter's side and walk with her down the aisle at her wedding. He doesn't think so.
He will never tell Jon, but Stephen wrote his family goodbye letters in the fall, after they had buried Kelly O'Neill. He had given them to Father Mark for safe keeping. Maybe he'll be able to collect those letters unread, maybe he'll be able to hug his babies again, but Stephen doesn't think it's a likely prospect. He prays for it anyway. He prays to God and Jesus and Mary and all the saints. To everyone he can think of that his family is safe, that Jon will be safe, that this nightmare will end with out anymore death or despair.
"Salve Regina, Mater misericordiae," he says over and over. "Hail holy queen, mother of mercy. Please, please, please."
Stephen tries not to think about whether he'll go to hell or not when he dies. Instead he concentrates as Father Mark, the deacons and altar boys recess out of the church, on the fact soon he'll be sitting next to Jon drinking hot chocolate and reciting The Night Before Christmas for any of the children who are still awake. The children who are still alive.
After the last of the mugs are washed and all the leftover food is put away, Jon leads Stephen back to their room. The basement of the school building is well insulated, but it's still a bit chilly and Stephen is exhausted. It's Christmas Day now. Too early for presents or really anything but crawling into bed, but still, Christmas.
Jon pushes back the covers as Stephen shimmies out of his suit and into pajamas. He crawls into bed next to Jon and thanks God for this small mercy. Jon is warm against Stephen's back. Jon is alive.
It must have been a long night for Jon too, because he kisses Stephen and is asleep moments later. Stephen had never considered that Jon's insomnia would be cured through such a dramatic change of circumstances, but it did. So Stephen listens to Jon breathe: in, out, in, out. The only constant in his world.
"Oh Lord," Stephen whispers, "let him live to see the end of this thing. Please."
With those words, he curls closer into Jon and lets sleep take him, hoping for a better tomorrow.