’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through his mind were the ghosts of the places he’d left far behind.
For he’d spent Christmas Eve under many a roof— some steady as bedrock, some shaky as truth.
He’d seen Christmas in countries that never knew snow, in bars where the jukebox was the only warm glow, on planes drifting quietly high in the night, with strangers asleep in the soft cabin light.
He’d had Christmas with family—so loud, so alive— and Christmas alone, just grateful to survive.
Some years brought laughter, bright as new chrome, and some years the silence felt heavier than home.
For some Christmas found him at home or at ease, and some found him working—breaking ice in the freeze, because cows don’t care if it’s Christmas or not, and a man does the work that the day has forgot.
He’d known Christmas on call, with alarms in the night, working beside those who walk toward trouble and fight, or tend to the hurting beneath cold hallway lights— the unseen defenders who hold back the darkest of nights.
And tucked in the corners of each memory kept were the loved ones he’d lost, and the nights that he wept.
Some gone to the Lord, their journey complete, and some still living… but walking different streets.
For grief wears two faces, he knew all too well— one shaped like Heaven, one shaped like farewell.
He remembered the Christmas he worked overseas, he remembered the one spent with only the breeze, and the Christmas he walked through a crowded café pretending he wasn’t a million miles away.
For a man learns that Christmas will find him somehow— in the then, in the there, in the here, in the now.
It arrives whether welcomed with joy or with doubt, whether he’s surrounded by love… or completely without.
’Twas the night before Christmas, and deep in his chest was a soft kind of hope that refused to rest.
A hope built from moments both bitter and sweet, from years on his feet and from years in retreat.
A hope from each sunrise he thought he’d outrun, and the battles he fought just to see Christmas come.
For the day has a magic that never quits trying— it comforts the living and whispers to the dying.
And he knows, as he sits in this season’s soft light, that no two Christmases ever come out alike.
Some dazzle with color, some crumble with ache, some heal the heart’s fractures, some teach it to break.
So whether the day finds him wrapped in laughter and light, or simply standing steady through another long night, whether he’s lifted by joy or just fighting the fight— Merry Christmas to him… to the ones he remembers… and to all a good night. “It’s been an honor to spend the past year telling the stories of this place I now call home. Your generosity, your humor, and your heart never fail to surprise me.”
This community has a way of making room for people — whether they’ve been here forever or just long enough to learn what a blessing it is to belong. Thank you for a year of laughter, stories, and open doors. Western Oklahoma is special because of the people who call it home.
