Editor's note: In the Sundays leading up to Christmas Day, we have a treat for readers: essays from Island notables that will help put you in a holiday mood. This warm story from musician Keola Beamer starts us off. Next week: Hybolics advocate Lee Tonouchi.

KE KUMU O KE KALIKIMAKA (THE SOURCE OF CHRISTMAS)

The scent of Christmas filled the shining marble lobby of the Executive Center on Bishop Street. The building was 40 stories of tinted glass and concrete in the middle of downtown Honolulu. I was hurrying back with my Starbucks coffee when I first noticed the sweet, familiar smell. A giant noble fir stood proudly in the lobby. Around it, cardboard boxes of ornaments and lights were ready to be unpacked.

I entered the elevator and pressed the button for the 38th floor. I needed to take a shower, check my e-mail and return as soon as possible to The Queen's Medical Center. I had spent the night in the cardiac intensive care unit, at the bedside of my mother. At the age of 82, the beloved kupuna of our family had undergone open-heart surgery.

It amazes me how quickly our lives can change. One minute I was listening to the wind sing through the coconut leaves on Moloka'i, trying to think of a present for my wife for Christmas, and the next, I was on O'ahu frantically trying to comprehend the medical aspects of Mom's situation. She was very weak and her face was ashen. I told her that I loved her. She was being very brave, but I knew she was frightened. Who wouldn't be? She lifted her hand to hold mine. "I'll always be here for you, Mom," I said quietly. Our hands separated as her bed was wheeled down a long, white hallway towards the operating theater. I wanted so badly to help her but I did not know how.

In the waiting lounge at the hospital, Christmas music played softly. Several blankets were spread out on the floor where small keiki were sleeping. A chubby local kid watching a Santa Claus movie rubbed his tired eyes. I sat next to the parents, and we spoke in whispers. They had been there every night for weeks, praying for their son — critically injured in an automobile accident. He was in a coma. They told me, "No worry. Queen's is good. Dey get the best guys." In the midst of their own immense sorrow and heartache, these sweet people were attempting to console me.

I felt aloha for them and anguish over the difficult battle my mother would face. Suddenly, a profound sorrow overcame me. It was a kind of grief that I had never known in my life. As the tears filled my eyes, I excused myself to find a bathroom down the hall.

FINDING STRENGTH

I was never a very religious human being. Many years ago, when I was in college, we studied the great philosophers and religions. I came away with the idea that one creates one's own meaning in life. While I seemed to know intuitively that there was a power greater than myself, I never really knew what to call it. To many of my generation, the idea of a God in the sky, tracking every detail of our lives seemed naive and fraught with contradictions. If Ke Akua was watching over us, why were Mom and I at Queen's hospital in the first place? I became angry. The tears streamed down my face. I felt like ramming my fist through the wall. Why was this awful thing happening? "Merry Christmas!" I said bitterly to the blurred face in the mirror. Beneath the bathroom's harsh fluorescent lighting, the anger surged through me in deep, dark, monstrous waves.

I feel the need to pray, to ask for Mom's life. But whom should I address? God? Buddha? Lono? Again, I felt helpless. Here was the woman who gave me life, yet I felt completely powerless to help her. For all the good I was doing, I might as well have been a zillion miles away. I was almost too furious to listen when my heart actually said something. "Ke Kumu," it whispered steadily. "Ke Kumu" — the source. I bowed my head and tried to subdue my anger. Somehow, the concept felt like truth to me. "Ke Kumu" — the source.

I closed my eyes and prayed. I prayed with all my heart. Whatever God's name was, he or she was certainly Ke Kumu. There were a few hard knocks at the door, but I could barely hear them. The white, tiled space was no longer a bathroom; it was a small, shining temple. The dark current receded. I washed my face. After a while, I felt better. Not so angry, not so afraid.

The hospital was adorned with Christmas decorations, colored lights and shiny green tinsel. Our 'ohana decided that the best thing we could do was to make our kupuna's recovery our first priority. No visitors, no phone calls. Mom needed to rest. What a relief. At last, I had a job that I was qualified for. Security! I am a large Hawaiian man; small dogs urinate when they greet me. Immediately I intercepted a guy in slippers, shorts and T-shirt, carrying a bucket of deep-fried chicken, headed for our kupuna's room. What kind of moron brings a bucket of deep-fried chicken into a cardiac intensive-care unit? I gazed at him in wonderment, then gave him the Lex Brodie treatment: "THANK YOU ... VERY MUCH!" I removed the still-warm chicken from his trembling hand and took it over to the 'ohana in the lounge. They were still holding on to the hope that their boy would come out of the coma. "Merry Christmas." I said. Ho! The kids got all happy.

On the way back to Mom's room, Na Leo was singing, "I'll be home for Christmas." I found a cancer patient sitting next to an IV rack on wheels, the plastic tubing coming down into his arms.

"Nice Christmas tree," I said, gesturing to the IV stand. He cracked a smile. "Waltah" was by himself in the hallway. We talked story for a while and he spoke about growing up on Moloka'i, and the changes he'd seen. He looked up at me through his thick, smudged glasses. "So different now, yeah? Da traffic ... unreal!"

I went to Longs, took out my AmEx card and got some stuff that he needed. Only small kine — a razor, shaving cream, a magazine, li hing mui.

I sat by his bed and listened to him reminisce. "I no mind losing my hair," he said. "Too long, gotta cut." Every once in a while, he would look out the window at an airplane taking off. In his dreams he was going home.

TIME TO REJOICE

At dawn, there was a light rain, and the Christmas tree at Honolulu Hale was bathed in soft, pink light. From now through the holidays, a thousand twinkling lights would illuminate the trees along Punchbowl Street. As I walked, a kolea flew over a stand of dark-green ferns, alighting in the thick, wet grass beyond. I took a deep breath and marveled at a morning adorned with red hibiscus flowers.

I went quietly to her room and heard a small rustling. Mom had awakened. For the first time in days, she smiled and looked at me. I hugged her as best I could and felt her warmth embrace me, like the sun rising along the open fields of Haleakala. I have no idea what the future holds, but for at least this Christmas, I will again see the sparkle in her eyes. "Mahalo, e Ke Kumu," I whisper in thanks.

I help her down the hallway using a walker, tagged "property of QMC." She moves slowly and painfully, her gray hair disheveled, small beads of perspiration forming on her brow. By her side, I feel determination; the depth of courage in her newly repaired heart. She asks about her little dog, her home in Hilo. I call the members of our family from my cell phone. In these past weeks, our petty differences have fallen away. We rejoice now. From far across Hawai'i, our voices surf currents of warm air.

Outside in the courtyard, the rain has stopped. I stare at a turkey dinner on the small, green tray. "Mele Kalikimaka," I exclaim to the dove with one missing foot at the edge of the table. We share the best Christmas dinner, ever. I make a Christmas list. McDonald's for the lounge 'ohana. And mango seed for Waltah.

Along the covered walkway, Ed Kenny sings "Da Twelve Days Of Christmas." At the "Eleven Missionaries" part, I rush up the stairway and out of the hospital. I got things to do. I need to find a quiet place behind the banyan trees of 'Iolani Palace. I'm going ask for the grace of Ke Kumu O Ke Kalikimaka. For a son to awaken. For Waltah to make it home.

With all my heart, I goin' try one more time.