Some Christmas traditions are pretty standard in mainstream（主流）American culture: put up the tree, string up the lights, visit grandma, and so on.

Then there’s the one my Colombian family does every year: the Novena de Aguinaldos. We pray（祈祷）for nine days without a stop, and this Novena counts down the nine days before Christmas. Most Americans have never heard of it, but in Colombia, it’s a big deal.

Like all good traditions, especially around the holidays, this tradition is about community and getting together with friends and family. My family immigrated（移民）from Colombia when I was just two months old. Every year, we gather with a group of Colombian friends for as many of the nine nights as we can.

There are three parts to the Novena de Aguinaldos. The first is the reading: each kid takes turns to read a book. Next comes the gozos, which means “The Joys”. That’s where the music comes in, and everyone gets an instrument, a maraca, a drum, a tin can—whatever you can use to make a sound. And then, the villancicos——Spanish Christmas carols（颂歌）come.

I’ve lived my whole life in the US. There’s not a lot of Colombian culture that we still hang onto. Why do we still carry on with the tradition of celebrating the Novenas, then?

When I asked my parents the other day, the answer was that immigrants didn’t belong anywhere—not where you were, nor where you were from. So my parents helped create a space where we did. Even if the Novenas were nothing like what we might have celebrated if we’d stayed in Colombia, the Novenas became the heart of our community.

But our Novenas are starting to feel a little more breakable. It’s getting harder and harder for everyone to get together each year. Last year, I was studying abroad in Italy and couldn’t make it to any gathering; my brother went off to college and had exams late into December; my sister just moved to a new city, and my parents have taken up jobs in different countries.

Raised in a motherless home, my father was extremely tightfisted towards us children. His attitude didn't soften as I grew into adulthood and went to college. I had to ride the bus whenever I came home. Though the bus stopped about two miles from home, Dad never met me, even in severe weather. If I grumbled, he'd say in his loudest father-voice, "That' what your legs are for!"

The walk didn't bother me as much as the fear of walking alone along the highway and country roads. I also felt less than valued that my father didn't seem concerned about my safety. But that feeling was canceled one spring evening.

It had been a particularly difficult week at college after long hours in labs. I longed for home. When the bus reached the stop, I stepped off and dragged my suitcase to begin the long journey home.

A row of hedged（树篱）edged the driveway that climbed the hill to our house. Once I had turned off the highway to start the last lap of my journey, I always had a sense of relief to see the hedges because it meant that I was almost home. On that particular evening, the hedged had just come into view when I saw something gray moving along the top of the hedged, moving toward the house. Upon closer observation, I realized it was the top of my father's head. Then I knew, each time I'd come home, he had stood behind the hedged, watching, until he knew I had arrived safely I swallowed hard against the tears. He did care, after all.

On later visits, that spot of gray became my watchtower. I could hardly wait until I was close enough to watch for its secret movement above the greener. Upon reaching home, I would find my father sitting innocently in his chair. "So, my son, it's you!" he'd say, his face lengthening into pretended surprise.

I replied, "Yes, Dad, it' me. I'm home."

As a child, there was nothing I liked better than Sunday afternoons at my grandfather’s farm in western Pennsylvania. Surrounded by miles of winding stone walls, the house and field provided endless hours of fun for a city kid like me.

Since my first visit to the farm, I had wanted more than anything to be allowed to climb the stone walls surrounding the houses. My parents would never agree because the walls were so old that some stones were loose and falling. However, my idea to climb across those walls grew so strong that finally I had all my courage to enter the living room, where the adults had gathered after Sunday dinner.

“I want to climb the stone walls.” I said. “Heavens, no! You’ll hurt yourself!” The response was just as I’d expected. But before I left the room, I was stopped by my grandfather’s loud voice. “Now hold on just a minute.”I heard him say. “Let the boy climb the stone walls. He has to learn to do things for himself.”

“Go,” he said to me, “and come and see me when you get back. ”For the next two and a half hours I climbed those old walls—and had the time of my life. Later I met with my grandfather to tell him about my adventures. I’ll never forget what he said. “Fred,” he said, smiling, “you made this day a special day just by being yourself. Always remember, there’s only one person in this whole world like you, and I like you exactly as you are.”

Many years have passed since then, and today I host the television program Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, seen by millions of children throughout America. There have been changes over the years, but one thing remains the same: my message to children at the end of almost every visit. ”There’s only one person in this whole world like you,“ the kids will hear me say, ”and people can like you exactly as you are.