Long ago, and, actually, pretty far away, there was a magical Christmas. It was the Christmas before we were married, when we both sang in the choir at church. In the weeks preceding Christmas, at rehearsal, we sang so many beautiful hymns that I had never heard before. At least one in Italian, which I thought was particularly beautiful (I would sing it at nap time to the children for whom I was a nanny), and others with simple, elegant melodies and harmonies. I was a member of the alto section; Guy, a tenor. As a whole, the choir could sound quite lovely, and rarely did we have a soloist.
The week of Christmas, our director, Jim, listed for us the songs and hymns that had been selected for the special services. One in particular, I was surprised about. We had not rehearsed it, and I had no recollection of ever having heard it. Now, of course, I am surprised by this, but when I hear it on the radio, I can see why. It's the kind of song that was on the choral albums of my youth, and tends to remind me of "Climb Ev'ry Mountain" from The Sound of Music: a wonderfully meaningful message, but not terribly exciting to listen to as a kid. I probably had heard it a hundred times, and simply tuned it out.
I remember Jim giving us special instructions about this song, and I remember being relieved that it would actually be sung by a soloist. Somehow, though, I remember being a tad confused. Everyone else seemed to know what was going on, but not me. Later, I asked Guy if he understood the instructions; in all honesty, I was relieved that he didn't get it either.
Christmas night, however, I was amazed.
The song was "O Holy Night," and the presentation at our church could not have been more astounding. The song will never be the same for me. You see, at our pretty little church, "O Holy Night" was sung by Santa, in a strong, clear, and completely unamplified voice that reached every rafter, every corner, every church mouse. As the music began, Santa entered through the front door, singing from one end of the aisle to the other, bearing the Christ child to place in our Manger, under the altar. His bright red suit and shiny black boots stood out from everyone in the church, and were complimented by the poinsettias and the large Christmas tree adorning the area around the altar.
I was completely mesmerized. His voice was so beautiful, I could understand each and every word, and his personage added special meaning to all of them. Obviously, this was a well-rehearsed event, because the timing was impeccable. Who would expect any less from Santa Claus? As he reached the words, "Fall on your knees," Santa had arrived at the step to the altar, and did, indeed, fall to his knees. And at the words, "Oh night when Christ was born," he lovingly, gently placed the figure in the Manger.
That was the first time I had ever seen Santa elevated to the status of a religious figure. I know he started out that way, obviously, he is a saint and all, but I grew up hearing how "commercial" Christmas had become, and how all 'us kids' had ever cared about was what Santa was going to bring, rather than what Christmas is really about. I grew up feeling guilty for looking forward to getting Christmas presents, and yet feeling overjoyed at going shopping for others. And yet, I did understand where it all started; I did want to see a clear--or at least, reasonable--link between Santa, cookies and stockings, and the birth of Jesus.
Santa gave me that gift. And I will never forget.
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