Christmas finally came today, sort of. I gave out presents at work and came home to help decorate the tree. The cards were mailed. We sat by a fire and listened to Christmas carols on Pandora. And I felt the joy of the season for the first time this year, really.
Most of this was supposed to happen Sunday. Instead, I worked for 14 hours, helping to edit and produce the coverage on the most horrific American mass murder of my lifetime. And I can’t help but think that, in a small town in Connecticut, there is an unimaginably sad group of families where the Christmas presents will go unopened, where the dawn of Dec. 25 will be greeted with tears. That’s what that cowardly little shit did — he stole the joy of Christmas from those who would appreciate it the most.
My mild sadness will pass soon enough. The pain of those who lost their children will linger indefinitely. And I am reminded that I need to be more grateful for the people who love me and for the happiness of the season. It’s too easy to overlook, and you never know when it might go away. This is a good Christmas for me to have a little more gratitude than normal.