Christmas stories …

As Christmas approaches, three priests from the archdiocese share their favorite memories.


Midnight Mass in Bison – Father Alex Kroll
 The birth of our Lord at Christmas has   always been a celebration of great joy   in my family. So many of my memories of Christmas began in the little church dedicated to   Saint Joseph, in Bison. This was the parish of my grandparents, the Catholic pillars of our   family.

Grandma and grandpa always arrived plenty early to the Midnight Mass and reserved our usual pew, left side toward the back. That was their pew for decades. Everyone in Bison has their proper place, but on Christmas, the little church fills up. Grandma and grandpa would get there even earlier than their usual 30 minutes to guard our spots.

Each year my family reliably ran a few minutes late and was always in a mad dash to get out of the cold and into the warm little church. We dressed up for the occasion and everyone knows good fashion takes time. After the customary digs from my uncles, 'Oh, glad you could make it … it’s started already … etc.,' we would settle into the pew as a family. Aunts, uncles, cousins, parents and grandparents, all were there in my childhood years, and my grandfather beamed with pride, his family together to celebrate the great miracle of Christmas.

Everyone was on their best behavior as the threat of grandpa ‘boxing your ears’ was a formidable deterrent and the rumors were that it would actually happen when my mom and uncles were my age. It was hard to imagine such behavior from the sweet man down the pew today, but the threat was enough to keep one from being too wiggly.

The Midnight Mass readings were familiar and comforting because my mom has been the lector so often that these have been proclaimed again and again in our home, in diligent rehearsal to meet the great dignity of the evening nativity.

I remember the priests over the years, so genial and warm, themselves full of the Joy of the incarnation. I remember hymns were sung, full throated and with enthusiasm, regardless of relative singing ability. I remember the little nativity in front of the altar and the childlike wonder that seemed to overcome even the adults.

As a kid I didn’t know all the profound mysteries of the incarnation, but I knew enough. I knew I was loved. I knew it was Jesus who brought our family together. I knew that the joy of our faith was unlike any natural happiness, and though I was excited for Santa and presents each year to be sure, when I think of Christmas as a kid, it is the Mass that brings the fondest memories and the fullness of gratitude.

Rejoice! Jesus Christ is Born!


Winter, 1983 – Father Don Wolf
In mid -December of 1983, Father Tom McSherry invited a group of us to his house-warming   party at the rectory in Hobart. He had been named pastor that summer but he hadn’t been able   to find a good date to have us all down to celebrate. Finally, with the Christmas holidays   looming, he took the chance and set aside a couple of days for merrymaking.

Now, this was in the early ’80s, when the winters were long and cold. As each of us made his way down to Hobart from across the archdiocese we were each battling the weather. I drove down from Texas County for the party on the 21st with snow on the ground the entire way. In fact, I had been out to the feedlot near Guymon with our prayer group for Mass on that previous Monday and one of them, in getting back in my car, had a small chunk of ice fall off his shoe. I left for Hobart in the afternoon and drove the whole distance, 220 miles, without the ice cube melting. It was cold outside.

But upon arriving the weather became as nothing. Being with Tom was always to step into the warmth of good times. Already Fr. Ernie Flusche was there, helping Tom with supper. As I stepped into the house and greeted them, they promised me the meal was on the way and we’d eat in due time. One by one, Tom’s friends arrived, and we sat and talked and joshed with one another, as priests do. It was cold and windy outside, which made the warm and chatter on the inside all that much more delightful. Eventually we sat in the upstairs room and unpacked the Christmas decorations with Tom while Ernie and a couple of helpers finished the finer details of supper.

Tom McSherry was a man made great by his gifts of insight and humor but made splendid by his hospitality and invitation. To be a part of one of his parties was a gift all its own. Each of us there was honored to be swept up into the sphere of his celebration. As supper was served and eaten, we sat at the table long into the evening, and then upstairs longer into the night, as our conversation deepened our delight. It was like magic.

Mircea Eliade, the cultural commentator, described the power of mythic storytelling to create a moment of pause in the narrative of life, creating space to encounter the eternal truth the myth communicates. Hearing the story is to enter a ‘time outside of time’ which he named ‘In illo tempore.’ We sat by the light of the tree we had set up and enjoyed the great blessing of time that stopped for a day and an evening, drawing us into Christmas.

The next day was more of the same, with even more friends arriving for the following evening. A rough winter storm was blowing in, with temps in the single digits and the wind howling all night long. But even getting ready for the next meal and helping Tom to winter-proof the house was like a fiesta all its own. He could make packing pipes with insulation into a party favor and meal prep into a game show. Ernie was also the consummate host, tilting each step toward supper into a royal initiation.

At 4 p.m. the storm hit. By that time we were well-stocked, the house was warm, the stew was cooking, and the cares of the day were over. Everyone had arrived and the evening was ours. Time paused in a new way, as if a portal had opened to a new dimension, and we breathed the air of delight for hours. I’ve forgotten the jokes Tom told and the crisscross of conversation that unfolded, but I still laugh at the joy in the air and the utter happiness at being there, insulated from the cold and glowing with Christmas to come.

The next morning, Christmas Eve day, the sky was clear and cold was piercing. I left early to make my way back to my parish, pushing to arrive in time for all we would do that evening. My pastor was not in a good mood as I got back; he had spent the day afraid I might be held up by the snow. But in my insouciance as a parish associate, I wasn’t worried. The glow of those days remained.

It was something the like of which we want to celebrate every year at Christmas. Around the table, by the light of the decorations, with my friends, I knew what it was like for Christ to come into the world to bring us all hope. Tom is gone now. Ernie too. Three others who were there those evening have also gone.

But as Christmas comes my thoughts turn to those two evenings and I give thanks. Jesus came into the world to bring us to the eternal banquet. If it is anything like the night before the night before Christmas, 1983, our salvation is the greatest gift any of us could hope for.


The “cattle dog” – Father Jim Goins
On Christmas Eve, 1975, my twin sister and I, along with one of my younger brothers,   accompanied my father to help him feed his cattle. The cattle were kept on the “old home       place,” land owned in common with grandmother and my father’s sister. 

  Unconvinced of the value of cows, we kids didn’t go happily and insisted on taking our dachshund, Sammy, with us. My father was not a dog person.  He considered dogs little more than livestock. Fortunately, my mother felt very differently and Sammy was fawned over and pampered.

Sammy had never seen a cow and went absolutely bonkers when introduced to them. He began chasing them and trying to bite their heels. If you know people who have cattle, you know that this is a major transgression.

My father threw a feed bucket at Sammy. It bounced off his head. He yelped and ran off into the woods near the creek. We called and called, but he would not come back. As dusk settled in, we left without him. We kids wept all the way home. 

A very rare event for Oklahoma occurred that night. A Christmas snowstorm blanketed much of the state. On Christmas morning, there was probably six inches of snow on the ground. We watched it not in wonder and awe, but in mourning for our little dachshund trapped in the snow. My mother led us in prayer for Sammy, but even she seemed resigned.

Christmas was empty without Sammy, and we went through the motions of opening gifts without joy.

Later in the day, we had to go back out and feed the cattle again, which, by the way, were never grateful for our efforts. There was no sign of Sammy.

We were nearly finished with the feeding when we heard him; a little yip yip somewhere in the distance. Then, we saw a flash of black and tan rising above the snow and disappearing into it again.

It was Sammy, struggling back toward us, having somehow survived the cold night, and no doubt dodging coyotes.

We dropped our feed buckets and ran toward him, scooping him up in a tangle of arms and letting him wash our faces with kisses.

My father had the best line of the day when he proclaimed that returning war heroes received less adulation than our silly little dachshund.

It was one of my favorite Christmases ever.