Church Music

by Bob Millard

Many families have rituals for putting away Christmas.

Christmas? I hear you say. Isn't it either too early, or too late to think about Christmas?

Yes, and that's exactly my point.

After the big day itself, sooner or later colored lights and ornaments go back in boxes, while dry and needleshedding evergreens find new life through the ministry of chipper trucks.

For some folks, the sooner the better.

There are people who remove every trace of holiday decoration the very next day. In England that is called Boxing Day, and perhaps they think it means decorations are due back in their boxes by sundown.

These ' Sooners' are up early, working with the speed and precision of a carnival crew striking the bigtop, because there's a show to do in Owensboro the next night.

Laying their fingers 'long the sides of their nose, to the attic all doodads and clay creches rose. Then, each shiny shard of cracked bauble or ball, with cedar or pine needles swept up the hall. Delicate heirlooms in newspaper wrapped, now stash away, stash away, stash away all.

Not the tiniest trace of Christmas will twinkle in their houses until the next year -- unless, of course, the cat has swallowed a few strands of tinsel.

I don't wish to speak of my Christmas this past year, but of an early evening in late February. My freshly seven-year-old son John and I were just leaving a birthday bowling party for one of his friends of longest standing. (At seven, one has many friendships going back half one's life, or longer.)

It was dark out, and bright lights of an older retail strip flanked us on either side of the road. I enjoyed the brief burst of exhuberance as John recounted the fun of bumper bowling, arcade games, then trading game tickets for twirlycopters, rubber snakes, and little toy tops.

But, it had been a long exciting day and soon the boy in the back seat fell silent. Glancing at the rearview mirror I saw he was not asleep, just wound down and staring pensively out the window. The past year been difficult for all of us — Mommy, Daddy, daughter, and son. With no clear answers to hard questions yet forthcoming, the pensive look was like a stray cat, which once fed cannot be chased away with a broom.

"How 'bout some music," I asked. I turned on the radio.

"Put on the tape," John replied.

I didn't have to ask. For a couple of years his favorite tapes for travel listening were those of Christmas music. I had several in the car. Odd collections, they were: some featured Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, and Goofy. Others, like "The Santa Claus Rap," had their own contemporary charm, of a sort.

Then, there were nostalgic old seasonal pop songs and traditional hymns. Rolling past ribbons of roadfront condo communities and dark hillsides not yet bulldozed and developed, the music played. Why is so much of the most memorable Christmas music — "Silver Bells," "White Christmas," "I'll Be Home for Christmas," and "There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays" — pensive?

John sang snatches of the hymns and pop tunes, fingering his party bag take. As we neared the highway entrance that would take us home quickly, "Silent Night" began to play. When I was no more than John's age, Rev. Kennedy's wife was Children's Christmas Pageant director, and taught me the low harmony to that hymn, in that old red brick Presbyterian church next door to Grandma and Grandpa Millard's house. I've loved it ever since.

Apparently, so does my son.

In that clear small voice of a child, he joined the melody on the first line. A few lines in, I added my low harmony, happy to discover that John didn't get pulled off melody by my addition. We sang what we remembered and faked the rest on pitch. It was lovely.

Then it was gone. As we joined the ribbons of red tail lights going home, the tape turned around and Disney cartoon characters made a lively laugh of some song about "Santy Claus."

John’s sister doesn't especially appreciate it when I humor her brother and play his Christmas tapes in the car. "It's not even Christmas," she observes. It's a normal reaction. Probably most people's reaction in late February-almost March after all, the trees and wrapping paper, ribbons and bow are a fading memory by then.

Singing "Silent Night" with my small son that night was another kind of gift. I don't know why he likes Christmas music all year long, but I'm glad he does.

And why not? Couldn't we all once in a while use a little extra out-of-season reminder of the light and hope God sent into the world in the person of the Christ child? It is a precious gift that never says "Some assembley required; Batteries not included."

Especially when I cannot feel much hope and light in my own life, I find God surrounds me with it anyway. It is there all year round, whether we notice it, or celebrate it or not.

The light and hope of the Christmas child, the sweetness and unconditional love of any child are somehow connected, I believe.

And, if you allow yourself to be open to it, you never know where or how it will appear. Once, for all, in a stable in Bethlehem. Once, for me, in the rearview mirror, as I watched a tired little boy who loves Christmas music all year round, safe in his car seat, being lulled to sleep by the hum and rumble of the highway.