Somebody stole my Christmas
But celebrating it under the beauty of the night sky was unforgettable

Elmo Jayawardena

CHRISTMAS is special, rather very special. Everybody looks forward to it. Silent nights and silver bells, mistletoe and pine smells, all wrapped up in wishes and kisses and the hugs and gifts that are so very special at Christmas time.

Looking forward to Christmas is a worldwide phenomenon; the mighty and the humble, the rich and the poor, the holy, the unholy and the super unholy, they all await the yuletide. The "haves" revel and the "have-nots" scramble.

Yet a celebration is made, no matter how small the purse is or how light the coins jingle in one's pocket.

I always look forward to Christmas. It's such a beautiful time.

There is always something wonderful about that season. To a point, it is imaginary — to be enjoyed more in prospect than in reality. Yet, it is something to look forward to, something to pastel shade the every day prosaic of life.

One can have a wonderful Christmas, a terrible Christmas or maybe a could-have-been-better Christmas. I've had my share of the entire lot. But 1994 was different.

Someone stole my Christmas.

For me, Dec 24 turned to the 26th with no 25th in between. Yes, my Gregorian calendar for that year did not have a 25th, which meant — no Christmas day.

That, in all its simplicity is my story.

It needs a unique combination of ill-luck to achieve this oddball situation. One must be really feasting on a bad news buffet to be the recipient. Well, I have often been a champion at pulling the short straw. This really was one of the shortest I ever drew.

My nomadic aeroplane-driving world had sardonically made sure my Christmas was cancelled. No silent nights, no Santa Claus, no church bells that ring silver. No wishes and kisses and hugs that bind, just one simple leap from the 24th to the 26th.

Possibly, I was no favourite of Santa. Never mind a gift; I would have been glad if he had given me the day.

Yes, some don't get into his list. That is the sad side of Christmas.

The left-out ones are usually poor little kids who believe and write those meaningless little notes and wake with hope to find that Santa never came. Almost similar to aeroplane drivers who leapfrog the Christmas day.

I've seen both sides of that coin; once upon a time I, too, have been a note writer who woke and realised Santa skipped my house.

I guess one more time wouldn't make all that much of a difference. Once in a while it's good to remember that you can't win them all. You got to lose some too. It's good to know the feeling of losing, that's what life is all about.

You win some, you lose some, and you grin and go on.

At 11 in the night on Dec 24, 1994, I power-ran the big jet engines of a 747 and rolled down the runway from the City of Angels and flew into a noel night sky, on my way to Taiwan.

It's a long flight from Los Angeles to Taipei, almost 15 hours. Flying west, I crossed the international dateline and landed in Chiang Kai Shek Airport on Dec 26. Somewhere across that lonely Pacific stretch, someone erased my Christmas.

I remember everything about that night; it was so very special, something that needed to be saved in the hard-disk of life. I recall how I kept staring at the vast clear open spaces that I love so much, the Pacific Sky splashed with heavenly lights and traces of whispery clouds. I remember a gibbous moon too, pale, yet luminous, giving a silvery touch to the mid-night blue.

It's difficult to describe, the serenity. It's the zenith of what beauty could be. The tranquillity of a night flightdeck in silent glide under the munificence of a million stars.

At 37,000 feet, I felt I was in a very special church. I was in God's own cathedral. I remember solemnly singing my own mass, at least the parts I could remember and reverently giving myself some sort of a sermon.

Then I caroled it with a hum of Silent Night and Silver Bells and thanked all the Gods in creation for all they have given me in life and especially when they haven't asked for anything in return.

That was my prayer; no request, no complaint, just heartfelt words of gratitude expressed in solitude seated on the left seat of a 747 whispering words that came from the very depth of me where sacred thoughts are stored.

Thus, under the canopy of a celestial heaven, I celebrated my own Christmas. That was a beautiful and wonderfully memorable communion.

I landed in Taipei with grateful thanks for a very special Christmas that would last in memory a lifetime.

Yes, Christmas is not only the glamour of a glittering pine tree laden with tinsel and coloured lights. Not a fancy Hallmark card or a gift from a loved one. Neither is it a visit from Santa Claus nor a feast of champagne, caviar and chateaubriand.

It is much more, perhaps something closer to a remembrance of who we are and in some ways a sanctified communication with who or what someone calls God.

1994 taught me that.

The writer served SIA for 19 years as a 747 captain and instructor. He is also the founder/president of AFLAC International (www.aflacinternational.com), a humanitarian organisation.