My Grandmother and Me
Written by Nyah - North Carolina, USA
There is a moment of stillness in Midnight Mass on Noche Buena when I feel closest to God. The flickering candles, the scent of incense, and the hushed prayers remind me that I am part of something greater than myself. As a queer person of faith, I have struggled with reconciling my identity with the religious traditions passed down through my family. Yet, each Christmas Eve, as I take my seat in the pew, I am reminded that my faith is not about exclusion. It is about love, devotion, and belonging.
Midnight Mass is more than just a ritual in my family. It is an act of remembrance, a bridge between generations. My grandmother, a woman of unwavering faith, always found solace in the warmth of the church on Noche Buena. When I was young, I would watch her close her eyes in prayer, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating the peace on her face. Though she is no longer with us, attending Midnight Mass is my way of honoring her and carrying forward the love she instilled in me. It is in these sacred moments that I feel her presence, whispered in the echoes of the choir, cradled in the quiet reverence of the congregation.
In the Latin and Caribbean community, queerness is often not tolerated and is even met with disdain. Growing up in Miami, where my family’s cultures blended, I was surrounded by love yet also by expectations that did not include people like me. Despite this, my grandmother never judged me or my trans siblings. She simply loved us, wholly and unconditionally. In a world where acceptance often felt out of reach, she was our safe haven. When she passed, I feared that I had lost that warmth forever.
But Midnight Mass brings it back. Sitting in the pew, surrounded by voices raised in prayer, I feel her love still wrapped around me. The ritual of lighting candles and singing hymns is more than just tradition. It is a connection to something eternal. It is a reminder that faith is not dictated by others' prejudices but by the love that God has for all his children.
For a long time, I feared that my queerness would separate me from my faith. I worried that I would no longer belong to the traditions I cherished. But as I sat in Midnight Mass one Christmas Eve, I was at peace. Jesus's love is not conditional. The warmth I felt as I listened to the Gospel was not reserved for some. It was for all. In that moment, I understood that I did not have to choose between my faith and my identity. God had made me exactly as I was meant to be, and there was no contradiction in loving both him and myself.
Faith is often seen as rigid, but I have learned that it is something far more fluid and expansive. Just as the light from those candles spreads warmth and unity, so too does love, divine and unconditional. Midnight Mass reminds me that faith is not about fitting into expectations set by others. It is about embracing the deep, unwavering belief that God's love knows no bounds.
This tradition, this sacred night, is my place of peace. It is where I find joy, where I find God, and where I find myself. Midnight Mass on Noche Buena is more than just a ritual. It is a homecoming, a moment where I can stand in the presence of my faith and know, without a doubt, that I am loved exactly as I am.
