They were simply songs, simply sung in the barn. Christmas songs, of course, and that specificity matters. I'm not sure that strumming through "Melancholy Baby" or "Stairway to Heaven" would have had the same effect, but even "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer" strikes a chord when there is a chill in the air and it has been snowing outside. "Let All Mortal Flesh" and "Silent Night" had us in the palm of their hand. It occurs to me that Christmas songs may best be sung in a barn -- dripped hydraulic fluid, diesel fumes, coiled hoses, chain saws and all. Isn't that, after all, close to how it all got started -- in a barn? There were no apparent angels in our midst -- though a more exacting definition of the word would surely argue the point -- but wise people bearing gifts certainly crowded the space. We had no hay, and though Tir made a promenading appearance at the outset, no other animals were present. Nevertheless, it felt like a holy night -- one that was exactly right; exactly like...well, like Christmas. 
A guitar string broke along the way, but it didn't matter. We had frenzied tambourines, finger cymbals and the exuberant smiles of kids. We had friends -- lifelong ones and others only minutes old. And we had the moments, warmed and exchanged. Besides, it wasn't about virtuosity. It wasn't about the strums or any dexterous fingerwork on frets and keyboards and horns, though there were plenty of those. It was about something far less obvious, infinitely more intangible, but ineffably important. It was about common songs, unfussed, offered up simply and honestly to the inky winter night outside and anything Divine that might be listening, as if something about the humble act among strangers and friends mattered.
Which, of course, it does.
There is work to be done today, cleaning up. Travelers -- from as near as next door and as far as states away -- have walked or driven home. The detritus of paper cups, wadded napkins and smeared plastic plates testifies to an evening well-spent. Conviviality mingled with -- or better, nourished by -- music collectively made. The tables will need to be wiped down before collapsing the legs, and I'll give some thought to where we might store the new folding chairs, out of the way. The floor could probably stand a broom, if not also a mop, and there is garbage to haul to the dumpster. But I think I'll plug in the tree, and the stars and nativity once more to light the way for the tractor and the truck moved back into place.
And smile in gratitude and retrospection.
And hum. "...all is calm. All is bright."
1 comment:
I, too, was very much taken with the caroling in the "barn" Sunday evening. I think I sometimes spend too much time with rehearsed,orchestated choral music, and not near enough with spontaneous, pick-up instruments and singing. If we ever do it agiain, we have to consider adding the ambience smells of old leather, a small tin of insecticide, and perhaps some hay bales, to go along with the hydraulic fluid. As I told Tim in departing, we should have thrown some straw on the floor as it would have been the perfect medium with which to absorb a little spilled chocolate, a kicked over wine glass, and numerous, but unidentifiable smears of chip and shrimp dip. THIS was the perfect kickoff to Christmas!
Larry Hanson
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