I don’t think there’s a lonelier place on Christmas Eve than a moderately-priced, residential hotel like the one I spent the night in a few years ago. The only other person I saw there was the desk clerk, who looked as if he’d volunteered to work because he too had no one with whom he could spend the holiday.

I had gone to the “Blue Christmas” service at my church, held for those who had experienced a loss in their lives that sapped the joy out of Christmas. I sat in the back of the room, not wanting anyone to see my grief, and like several others, I cried throughout the entire service.

I stopped at Walgreens to buy a bottle of wine, a wine opener, and a cinnamon-scented red candle before driving back to the hotel over streets that were empty of traffic. I could see families and friends inside some of the homes, enjoying the holiday together. As I pulled into the parking lot I spotted only one other car, as frozen and lonely as the desk clerk to whom it probably belonged. I walked down the silent hallway to my generic room that looked like every other moderately-priced hotel room I’d ever spent the night in.

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