December was always a special time for me as my dad and I, like millions of Americans, celebrated Christmas and the prospect of a promising new year with food, family and friends.

However, that celebration ground to a screeching halt in 1990. In November that year, I received orders to U.S. Central Command headquarters in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, in support of Operation Desert Shield. As a public affairs specialist, my job was to write about the military’s involvement and assist national media with covering the war.

I mentally searched for the words to soften the blow of this unwelcome news. However, there was no way to sugarcoat what could only be a sour address. As expected, Dad was shaken by my assignment to a hostile Middle East environment. I told dad I love him … and prepared for my departure. For the first time in my life, I would miss Christmas with family.

On Jan. 17, 1991, Desert Shield became Desert Storm. Almost immediately, dad fell into an emotional and physical chasm from which his family feared he wouldn’t recover.

I assured dad I could don my chemical mask in six seconds and shoot a rifle with deadly accuracy. However, my comments offered little comfort. The thought of his son possibly returning home in a body bag gnawed at him like an incurable disease. Surely, he would have died had a bullet or scud missile found me.

Dad’s health deteriorated rapidly. An ashen pallor replaced his peaches and cream complexion. He seldom ate and lost so much weight that water could fill the hollow of his collarbones. Before long, dad experienced chest pains and mom urged him to see the doctor.

However, instead of visiting the doctor, he prayed for the war to end and for my safe return home. Even after ODS ended on Feb. 28, 1991, dad remarked, “I won’t stop praying until Bill’s feet are back on U.S. soil.” Two weeks later, I was on a military flight heading home.

Residents whistled and cheered as military personnel disembarked the plane at Peterson Air Force Base. Singer Lee Greenwood’s patriotic anthem “God Bless the USA” poured from 6-foot stereo speakers as well-wishers clutched yellow rose wreaths, and red, white and blue balloons.

My parents’ support was overwhelming. A poster of a bald eagle clenching a “Welcome Home” banner in its talons was scotch-taped to the garage door. A blanket-sized U.S. flag hung on the outside of the house, and yellow ribbons tied around pine trees snapped in the warm breeze. A large U.S. flag-shaped cake waited on the kitchen table.

The tears that welled up in dad’s eyes spoke volumes. When he found his voice, dad, in six words, summed up the nation’s heartfelt appreciation of its uniformed sons and daughters: “I love you Bill. Merry Christmas,” he said as he wrapped his arms around me and sobbed. I also cried, grateful for a love that nearly cost dad his life.

Christmas was never the same for us. It was better than before.

When dad died in August 2002, I held him in my arms and thanked him for his love and guidance. “Thank you for my life and your love. Thank you for being my dad,” I whispered as he closed his eyes forever.

This year, I encourage you to celebrate family and to spread that love. Life truly is a gift, and once that gift is gone, it is gone forever. I wish my dad were here to celebrate Christmas with me. Ours would be a celebration unlike any other.

William J. Dagendesh is an author, writer and retired U.S. Navy photojournalist, editor and public affairs officer. He has lived in southern Colorado 24 years. Contact William with comments or ideas for his column at nutmeg120395@yahoo.com.