I'll admit that the 11:00 pm Christmas Eve service always begins on a note of annoyance. The earlier service gathers the multitudes, and there are always hands to shake and holiday hugs, there are annual faces to recognize and welcome and the inevitable foot tapping waiting for the last to leave. And then we rush home to celebrate Christmas with the kids. They are old enough now to beat us home from church and take charge of the eggroll assembly. We fry and visit and set the table and eventually sit, ourselves, amidst a lively chatter of worship critique and the news of the day. Eventually we migrate to the living room, in front of the fire, and allocate the packages to their intended hands. And it's wonderful -- the playful comments, the gasps and appreciations, the remembrances and affections. And it is always cut short. The late service beckons.
Shooing the kids out the front door, Lori and I hustle our way out to the garage and make the quiet drive back to the church, to unlock, to straighten up, to rearrange, and to wait to see if anyone appears. And, as I say, it's always stained with a gentle resentment that our family time has been abbreviated.
But the 11 pm service has its own special magic, and before long it has worked on me. This is never a large service -- a few hands full of folk at best -- and I am always surprised by who they are. A stranger or two -- one for whom a stable might be a step up. Former members from years ago, visiting, with a touch of melancholy at their distance. An extended family from the neighborhood who attend every year. Several from the church. Some repeaters from the earlier service.
And the story. "A decree went out from Caesar Augustus..."
And the carols. "O Little Town of Bethlehem..."
And the candles. "Silent night, holy night..."
And the pregnant moment, flames held high in an awkward but somehow reassuring circle, when it's possible to believe that the light indeed shines on in the darkness -- just as it does in this darkened room -- and the darkness will not put it out.
And these moments that began stained with resentment I find myself just now not bearing to let end.
"Jesus Lord at thy birth. Jesus Lord at thy birth." Strangers, for the most part, become somehow soulmates in that circle, we stand there as the notes fade into silence, the flickering candles the only movement.
"Merry Christmas," I say, when I can delay the inevitable no more.
"Merry Christmas," the little huddle of folk respond. And after a moment's pause, the spell is broken and feet begin to shuffle toward the door. But the spell is not really broken. The glow from the candles has now moved to the faces, as the room quickly empties and returns to silence.
We unplug the tree, extinguish the rest of the candles, close and lock the doors, and crunch out into the snow -- glowing a bit, ourselves.
"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,
“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace..."
Merry Christmas.
14
Shooing the kids out the front door, Lori and I hustle our way out to the garage and make the quiet drive back to the church, to unlock, to straighten up, to rearrange, and to wait to see if anyone appears. And, as I say, it's always stained with a gentle resentment that our family time has been abbreviated.
But the 11 pm service has its own special magic, and before long it has worked on me. This is never a large service -- a few hands full of folk at best -- and I am always surprised by who they are. A stranger or two -- one for whom a stable might be a step up. Former members from years ago, visiting, with a touch of melancholy at their distance. An extended family from the neighborhood who attend every year. Several from the church. Some repeaters from the earlier service.
And the story. "A decree went out from Caesar Augustus..."
And the carols. "O Little Town of Bethlehem..."
And the candles. "Silent night, holy night..."
And the pregnant moment, flames held high in an awkward but somehow reassuring circle, when it's possible to believe that the light indeed shines on in the darkness -- just as it does in this darkened room -- and the darkness will not put it out.
And these moments that began stained with resentment I find myself just now not bearing to let end.
"Jesus Lord at thy birth. Jesus Lord at thy birth." Strangers, for the most part, become somehow soulmates in that circle, we stand there as the notes fade into silence, the flickering candles the only movement.
"Merry Christmas," I say, when I can delay the inevitable no more.
"Merry Christmas," the little huddle of folk respond. And after a moment's pause, the spell is broken and feet begin to shuffle toward the door. But the spell is not really broken. The glow from the candles has now moved to the faces, as the room quickly empties and returns to silence.
We unplug the tree, extinguish the rest of the candles, close and lock the doors, and crunch out into the snow -- glowing a bit, ourselves.
"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,
“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace..."
Merry Christmas.
14
2 comments:
Tim,
The Lufkin late service is posted on our web site.
You might enjoy revisiting those East Texas candles.
Loved your post about Christmas Eve.
Mike
How wonderful and nostalgic..the man who helped "raise me" in the youth choir, and the man who "married me" to Greg. Happy New Year to you both...
Tana Brown Weiss
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