It was the week before Christmas, and the year was 1986.

I got an urgent call to go to the hospital. “There’s a little baby in an Incubator, and he doesn’t have long to live,” said the compassionate nurse on duty. “The poor family is grief-stricken; they’re all here in the room, and they want you to baptize the baby before he passes away.”

I dropped what I was doing and drove, posthaste, from the Church to Raulerson Hospital in Okeechobee, Florida. When I entered the room, family members, gently, moved aside, creating a narrow path to where the baby lay in an Incubator. Every space of the small room was packed tight.

Mexicans are a compassionate people. When one of their members is suffering, they all show up. The faces of the grievers were downcast and sad; heads hanging low and eyes, half-shut. Not a word was spoken. You could feel the sadness in the room. You could hear a pin fall.

The gentle nurse in charge made her way, awkwardly, to the Incubator and, with tears flowing down her cheeks, handed me a small, paper cup of water. I baptized the tiny baby in the Incubator.

I felt inadequate and realized the need to do something more, so I spoke (in Spanish) to those present. “Do not feel so sad for the child is in God’s hands. I’m going to administer the sacrament of healing now so the child will get well.”

Suddenly, the eyes of everyone popped open, and they became alive for the first time since I entered the room. There was a sensation of hope, that blessed harbinger of new life, all around the room. I felt shaken and taken aback, however, by what I had just said, and by the sudden reaction of those present. What had I done? Did I give them false hope? What am I going to do now? Conflicted and torn by mixed emotions, I had no other choice but to continue what I began. So, I asked for help: “Your faith is what is needed.”

The nodding heads quietly signaled approval.

I anointed the child: “with this holy anointing may the lord heal you and raise you up….” and then began to recite the Lord’s prayer. Everyone joined in, fervently, in praying: ‘El Padre Nuestro.’

After the final blessing, I left.

Christmas Day is the busiest and most exhausting day in the life of a parish priest. When the last mass was over, I retired to the rectory to rest. But, there was to be no rest. A loud knocking at the door interrupted my quiet reprieve. The Usher, responsible for closing the Church, was visibly shaken: “There’s a bunch of Mexicans sitting on the grass outside the Church, and they won’t leave. Should I call the police?”

“No,” I replied. ” These are hard working people, and they probably want to visit the Church on Christmas Day. Their schedules are not ours.” I thanked my friend and wished him a merry Christmas as he left for home.

Walking along the loggia, from the rectory to the Church, I marveled at the grace of these humble people spread out on the grass. They smiled at me, without uttering a word. I smiled back, happily. This was the only language we spoke, the universal language of a smile. I opened the side door to the Church and they followed me inside, as quiet as mice in a belfry. I set up the altar, placing the chalice in the center, the wine and water on the side. Then, I went into the sacristy to vest for the final mass of Christmas Day.

There was no music, no procession, none of the usual, liturgical solemnity at this mass. It was a simple celebration. From the nearby sacristy, I approached the altar vested for mass, and stopped short.

On the altar was a baby’s creche. Snugly nestled inside, a smiling baby peered out like the Christ-child born in Bethlehem’s manger over two thousand years ago.

I didn’t have to ask for an explanation. The smiles, the luminous faces of the small congregation, said it all. This was the baby that was baptized and anointed the week before Christmas in the hospital. And, these were the people who were bowed down with grief at the child’s bedside. Gone, however, were the sad and dismal countenances. The miraculous healing of this beautiful child transformed those sorrowful faces into ones of radiant joy.

Overcome by the same joy, I invited everyone to come forward and join me, around the altar, to celebrate a most memorable Christmas.

—Fr. Hugh Duffy