Every Christmas Eve, my parents would go out in the early evening. When they returned, their holiday spirits would seem muted somehow, not as jolly as I would have liked. As years passed I began to wonder where they went. Their answer was always, "When you are older, we'll take you."

I was in Junior High when my request to go with them was granted. After I bundled up, my parents handed me two lanterns and we got in the car.

"We're going to spend some time with the rest of the family," my father said.

We entered the cemetery and walked to the graves of my two baby sisters. The snow was a soft powder blue under the Christmas stars, wisps of my breath curled heavenward. We spoke in whispers as we trudged through the snow. I vividly remember the depth of peace that filled the air, and the gentleness of my parents as they placed the lanterns at the graves of Rosanna and Melissa.

"Merry Christmas, little ones, we love you," my parents said.

We stood in silence and watched the lantern flames bring warmth and light to the dark and frosty night. I thought of Jesus Christ, the light of the world. The words of a Christmas Hymn rang true in my heart at that moment, How silently, how silently the wondrous gift was given. I had the gift of eternal love and the gift of hope that transcends death because of a Bethlehem baby.

We walked away holding hands in silence. I looked back at the two flames that would keep vigil over my two sisters, much like the star that watched over a manger all night long, thousands of years ago.

At home, there were a hundred important and yet insignificant tasks that filled the rest of the evening. I thought I had lost the sweetness I had experienced earlier, but when I closed my eyes that night, I saw again two lights shining on a snow swept hill.