Nothing is as pure as the faith of children at Christmas time.
It is more than seeing Santa Claus or getting presents.
Nothing is as pure as the faith of children at Christmas time.
It is more than seeing Santa Claus or getting presents. Some children of 3 or 4 sense the wonder of the season without being able to understand or express it. But they are nonetheless awed by it.
Observe your pre-school children or grandchildren when “Away in a Manger” is sung. They are subdued by the age-old story of a child born in a manger over whom the angels watch.
It may be the first carol that moves them, but as they learn the words to others they grasp the glory of the holiday with a sense of newness mostly forgotten by people who have heard them again and again for years.
I was 4 when Christmas Eve arrived in 1937, and although most of my Christmas memories centered on Santa Claus and the tree of the previous year my mind was alert to the wonders it presented.
My brother, Larry, took me to the service at an old Lutheran church that the German-born burghers of mid-19th century Toledo had built. It was a solid structure with many ornate decorations besides the stained glass windows.
Although I was starting to read I still puzzled over some words so could not keep up with other members of the congregation as they opened their songbooks. Instead, I looked around at everyone singing and shuffled my feet surreptitiously to get the circulation going again. I looked up at Larry, who had been glancing at me, and he winked and kept on singing.
As the congregation resumed its seats the minister spoke of the significance of the Birth. Then he nodded and the choir, in the loft above my head, sang “Joy to the World!”
After another carol or so, a single voice arose in “Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem.” It was a woman singing – probably a young one – and her voice spilled forth effortlessly like a crystal fountain.
I must have heard the song before but for the first time the words made an impression on me. “Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.” I could see with startling clarity a blue-black sky over white blocks of houses while a few stars moved serenely through the heavens. I could not begin to convey to my brother how the experience affected me.
After the service ended and many of the worshippers retired to the conference rooms for hot chocolate and cookies, I hoped to see the soloist. When I told Larry, he took the program from his pocket, scanned it and said, “She’s not listed.” I believe that if he had grasped the depth of my feeling then, he would have inquired and learned her identity.
Later at home I tried to communicate the revelation to my parents. Mom smiled and said, “That’s nice,” the way parents often do when their minds are on other things. My father reminded me that Santa Claus was not likely to come to our house while any child was still awake and that my three younger brothers had already fallen asleep.
I went to my bed and left the door ajar so I could see the muted glory of the Christmas tree but my mind was still on the image the song had evoked. I stared up at the ceiling for what seemed hours but was probably not more than 15 minutes.
The excitement next morning over the gifts Santa Claus had left temporarily overshadowed the experience, but its memory reasserted itself again and again through that day and in the weeks that followed.
Sixty-five years have passed and that memory has shone on every Christmas Eve I have known since. It will still be luminous at my last.
