Night Before Christmas

“ Twas the night before Christmas inside the nursing home,
Where the world grows quiet and hearts turn home.
The lights were dimmed low, not from despair,
But kindness for bodies grown fragile with care.

The air held the scent of pine and clean sheets,
Of warm cocoa cooling and slow, careful beats.
Each room held a story, folded and deep,
Held gently now in the arms of sleep.

Beds lined the halls like pauses in song,
Where the past and the present quietly belong.
Hands once busy with loving and doing
Now rested in stillness, softly undoing.

Some residents slept, breaths calm and light,
Some watched the ceiling fade into night.
Some whispered prayers learned long ago,
Words worn smooth by years of letting go.

Stockings hung from bedrails, simple and small,
Little signs of care, enough after all.
Names written clearly, steady and kind,
As if love itself was saying, I remember you.

Then down the hallway came a gentle sound,
Not bells, not voices, just peace moving round.
Soft padded steps on a polished floor,
A presence arriving without asking for more.

A therapy dog moved quietly through,
Golden and calm, faithful and true.
His blue bandana rested easy and bright,
“Therapy Dog” stitched clean in white.

He paused at each doorway, breathing the air,
As if listening for prayers still hanging there.
He knew which rooms needed silence the most,
Which hearts were holding the thinnest coast.

He entered the room of a woman named Mary,
Her body tired, her breathing airy.
Once she sang carols, strong and clear,
Now she sang them inside, year after year.

The dog laid his head where her hand could rest,
Warm and steady against her chest.
Her fingers curled slowly into his fur,
And the room felt fuller, calmer, sure.

“I’m ready,” she whispered, peaceful and low.
“No fear now. I can go.”
There was no rush, no need to explain.
Just trust settling in like gentle rain.

Down the hall, a man lay awake with his thoughts,
Years of memories, tender and caught.
The dog pressed close to his waiting side,
And the man exhaled what he no longer needed to hide.

“I give it back,” he said without sound.
“All of it now. I’ve carried it long.”
The dog stayed, breathing slow and deep,
A quiet companion while promises keep.

Snow brushed the windows, soft and slow,
Each flake a blessing letting go.
Nurses moved gently, hands warm and sure,
Honoring moments too sacred to cure.

This was Christmas without spectacle or demand,
Without needing answers or a plan.
This was Christmas as it often appears,
In trust, in presence, in tender years.

Near dawn, the dog curled near the desk to rest,
His breathing even, his body blessed.
The halls seemed lighter, the night complete,
As if heaven had brushed every heartbeat.

And somewhere between midnight and day,
Between holding on and giving way,
Christmas arrived, quiet and true,
Wrapped not in ribbons, but in peace that grew.

Merry Christmas to all who are resting tonight.
To those still holding. To those releasing.
May love meet you gently, wherever you are,
And carry you softly, just as you are held.

Amen.