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Almost always when I think of my younger brother, I am propelled back to Christmas Eve 1970.

At midnight, our church glowed like a beacon at the top of the city's highest hill. Every stained glass window sent its saintly image out into that dark night, a night where most everyone was nestled in their beds waiting for Santa to arrive - everyone except the faithful, who were readying themselves to celebrate one of the most joyful and holiest nights of the year!

I was seven years old. I sat on the dining room table in excited anticipation as I watched my mother and her girlfriend unpack the costume that would transform my six-year-old brother.

There were oohs and aahs throughout the unveiling. Charles would wear a white, ruffled shirt, white knickers trimmed with sparkling brocade, and a white, three-cornered hat adorned with a long, white, exotic peacock feather. He'd been chosen to be an angelic musketeer!

Charles was one of six pages to lead the midnight Mass procession from the entrance to the altar. The pages, altar boys and

priests followed the gilded crucifix as it wove through the candlelit church until they gracefully settled into their assigned places in the sanctuary.

Haunting and beautiful Christmas melodies sung by the choir were accompanied by woodwinds, strings and a gorgeous organ. Spectators could not help but feel God's presence and sense His nod of approval over the glorious festivities.

This is how I remember Christmas - and, with this memory, I choose to celebrate instead of grieve for my brother, who would never do anything in his short life as important or as grand as he did that night: participating in the celebration of our Lord's birth. I can only hope he knew that to be true, as well.

(Ms. Augusto is a parishioner of Sacred Heart Church in Stamford.)[[In-content Ad]]

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