O Holy Light
A Christmas Eve memory lingers still
The wizened woman appeared as a speck against the blond floorboards of the junior high auditorium where my church had gathered for Christmas Eve worship. The woman’s silver braids quivered in sync with the opening lines of “O Holy Night.” The woman’s name was Hetty, and she strained, trilled, and tremored, grasping for notes out of her reach.
My brother and I glanced at each other. He shifted on his seat, I shifted on mine. Our shoulders began to shake as we attempted to vanquish our giggles.
In my elementary years, before we had moved to Iowa and back to Minnesota again, we attended Christmas Eve services at the large A-framed church my great-aunt attended. My memories are hazy about the actual “church” part…a crush of people in puffy winter coats…possibly a creche, with real hay, near the altar. My memories are crystal clear when it comes to the congregation’s singing. Every year, I jumped at the off-key “Joy to the World.” I marveled at stoic Scandinavian monotony of “Silent Night.” It provided strange comfort as I leaned my unlit candle toward the flame nearest mine, cradling my lit wick and wondering at the sanctuary’s glow.
The contrast between the A-framed church’s Christmas Eve service and the one in which the lady on the stage stretched out her arms and sang “fallllllllllllllll on your kneeeeeeeeeees/and heeeeeeear the angel’ voicessssss” was as stark as the difference King Herod’s and the Wise Men’s responses to Jesus’s birth. There were sketches and skits; drums and a praise band; melody and harmony and; true joy and real conviction. With Hetty on the stage, how could anyone doubt that this, tonight, the night of our Savior’s birth was anything but holy?
Each Christmas Eve at our new church, Hetty stood wren-like before us. She breathed in and stretched up to her full five feet, singing out –- and out –- and out–- trying with all her being to reach vocal heights divine.
And each Christmas Eve as Hetty took her place before us, my brother and I glanced at each other, turned away, and forced our giggles down. We were entertained, and easily amused, but we were not cruel or disrespectful. Neither were we ignorant. On some level, we saw that Hetty’s heart beat for and longed for her Jesus. He was not a fable. He was God Incarnate. She opened her hands and lungs, bringing her humble offering to Him and the congregation.
The first Christmas Eve service without Henrietta didn’t feel like Christmas Eve.
It didn’t even feel holy.
I long for those Christmas Eve pasts. With Hetty. With my family of four. With the savor of my brother's wry, twisted, freckled face as he routed his giggles.
I listen to “O Holy Night” incessantly, searching for a performance as authentic as the one Hetty offered us until, one day, she truly fell on her knees, rejoicing before her King.1 Her “O Holy Night” radiates in my memory, the light lingering still.