On the front page of the Wednesday, Dec. 22, edition of The Times and Democrat was the headline: "20 killed in attack in Mosul." Later reports inflated the number of dead to 22.

As usual in an attack of this nature, American soldiers and civilians comprised the majority of the fatalities. My initial reaction mirrored that of most people who picked up their morning paper or tuned into the news that day — sorrow for the soldiers and civilians who sat down to eat lunch that fateful afternoon and remorse for the families who will forever have to deal with the tragedy of losing a loved one during the holiday season. A combination of anger mixed with pity is directed toward the faceless cowards who carried out the act.

It doesn't occur to me until some time later that 12 months ago, I was in the same position as those soldiers in that mess hall. What a difference a year makes. It all seems so far away now, almost like another lifetime.

Whenever I learn of attacks such as the one that occurred in Mosul, I am reminded of what could have been. One incident stands out because it is eerily similar to the events of Dec. 22, 2004. It was December 2003, also during lunch.

I was in the mess hall with a group of buddies when we all heard a rumble in the distance. A few moments later came a louder, closer boom. At this point, everyone quickly left the vulnerable, soft-top structure of the mess hall for the relative safety of bunkers and bomb shelters made of sandbags and concrete.

Thankfully, the mortar rounds fell harmlessly to the ground that day, causing little more than a few dents in the asphalt. Nevertheless, being that close to your own mortality will cause anyone to see things in a different light.

Up until that point, I didn't want to have anything to do with Christmas. I didn't want to see any Christmas lights or decorations. I didn't want a Christmas tree. I even got into a heated discussion with a member of my platoon over why we shouldn't put up one of those plastic posters of Santa on the door to our building.

Thinking about it now, I had a pretty silly argument, something about Santa not knowing how to find Iraq. The reality was that I simply did not want to face what I was missing. I was missing Christmas, and there was nothing I could do about it.

So in order to deal with it, I transformed myself into something resembling Ebenezer Scrooge and the Grinch all rolled into one. It didn't work, much to my feigned dislike.

Christmas came to Iraq, along with all of the usual Westernized trappings. Soldiers' family members shipped over strings of colorful blinking lights and pint-sized plastic Christmas trees complete with tinsel, and all sorts of images of Santa found their way to Mosul.

Before it was all over, even "Ebenezer Grinch" was moved by the spirit of the season. On Dec. 24, I received the best present any deployed soldier could hope for — not one, but two very large care packages. One was from my family and friends. It contained everything that I'd asked for and more, much more than I could possibly use myself.

The other was sent by the good people here at The Times and Democrat. It was packed to overflowing with games, electronic toys, candy, personal hygiene products and letters of thanks and encouragement from all the employees. Everyone in the room gathered around as I tore the tape from the boxes; we were all eager to see what was inside.

With little conscience or thought, I pulled item after item from the boxes and began passing them out to my buddies. Everyone got something for Christmas, thanks to the thoughtfulness of people they will never meet.

It felt good to play Santa, especially considering that I wanted to ban any thing Santa-related from my life. That day, I realized that Christmas is so much more than the decorations we put up or the presents we receive. Christmas is something far less tangible than all of that.

Christmas is peace, Christmas is love, it is compassion and hope. Christmas is everything that is good in this world. The spirit of Christmas has the ability to change the heart of anyone, even if you don't want it to do so.

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