Christmas in Cell 209

Dear Friend,

Around the Basilica of St. Anthony the atmosphere is changing. Streets glow with soft lights, shop windows sparkle with garlands, and cafés offer warm drinks and pastries. Yet something deeper stirs – not only in the city’s alleys and squares, but also in many hearts. And here, within the Basilica, we friars feel it too.

Even though we are still in Advent, a gentle joy is already stirring – a joy that doesn’t come from decorations, but from the hope Christmas brings. A hope made visible centuries ago by St. Francis of Assisi, who gave us the first Nativity Scene.

This year, that legacy has a special meaning. In 2026 we will mark 800 years since St. Francis’s death, remembering how he taught us to see Christmas not only as a feast, but as one of the greatest miracles of all: God made visible – as a baby in a manger – out of love for each one of us. That is why the Nativity Scene we prepare in the Basilica must be more than beautiful; it must speak to the hearts of all who see it.

And because Christmas touches hearts more through lived stories than through words, I would like to share one that recently warmed my heart.

In a US federal prison in 2006, a man named Michael sat alone in his cell – Cell 209. Convicted of murder, he had cut off contact with family and friends. He hadn’t prayed in years. He hated Christmas, seeing it as nothing more than empty lights and false cheer.

One day, a small package arrived from a Christian charity that sent Christmas boxes to inmates: warm socks, a pocket Bible, a notebook with a pen, and a handwritten card from a child. Michael opened it without interest – until he read the card: Dear friend, I don’t know who you are, but God loves you, and I’m praying for you. Merry Christmas. – Daniel, age 8.

Michael froze. One word pierced the cold silence of his heart: friend. He hadn’t been called that in years. And the thought that someone – a child – was praying for him, someone who didn’t even know his name, stirred something deep inside.

That night, in the silence of Cell 209, Michael prayed – a simple, broken prayer. The next day, he asked to see the prison chaplain. Over time, he reconciled with his family, began reading the Bible, and eventually became a mentor to other inmates.

“My Christmas began with a note from a child,” he said later. “And in that moment, I knew that even in the darkest place, God had not forgotten me.”

So what is Christmas, really?

It is not about lavish meals, presents, flawless decorations or parties – nor about showing kindness only once a year to those we often overlook. Christmas is about a God who comes close – who steps into our struggles, our prisons, our loneliness, our broken families, and our weary hearts – and whispers: “You are not forgotten.”

It is about a child in a manger… and a little boy named Daniel with a pencil and paper… both carrying the same message: Love came down.

This Christmas, let us make room for that love. It must be visible not only in our homes, but also in our hearts – and in the lives of those who may feel forgotten. May we become messengers, like little Daniel, bringing light where there is darkness, peace where there is hurt, and hope where it is needed most.

On behalf of all of us friars here at the Basilica of St. Anthony, I send you our heartfelt wishes for a holy and joyful Christmas. May the Child born in Bethlehem fill your heart with peace, your family with joy, and your year ahead with hope. Please know that you are lovingly remembered in our daily prayers before the Tomb of St. Anthony.