When I remember the Christmases from decades gone by, I sometimes think of the din and racket of the day.
I recall with fondness—and not a little sadness—all the sounds that gave the morning its verve and excitement for the youngster I once was: the drip of the coffee pot, the shredding of the wrapping paper, the exclamations of surprise or delight by the assembled family members, the voices of the choir of King’s College, Cambridge, as heard annually on public radio in their recitation of Lessons and Carols.
Those sounds are so much like the one referenced in the title (and opening lines) of John Updike’s lovely poem “A Sound Heard Early on the Morning of Christ’s Nativity”: “The thump of the newspaper on the porch on Christmas Day, in the dark before dawn yet after Santa Claus has left his gifts . . .”
Although it is likely to make little sense to people raised in a post-print and, indeed, post-literate world, Updike’s remembered sound—like my remembered sounds—is an indication of the stimulating freshness that so often accompanies the morning on which we celebrate the birth of Christ.
Yet, just as often, I find my mind drifting back to those Christmases in which peacefulness prevailed over pandemonium—when, to invoke another famous poet of the season, Clement Clarke Moore, “not a creature was stirring.”
On the Christmas Eve when I was 13, my parents arranged luminaries along the perimeter of our front yard—a considerable feat since, at the time, we lived in a house on a half-acre corner lot. My father, a nonsmoker and early riser, somehow came into possession of a BIC lighter and willed himself to stay up later than usual to light them. I walked beside him as he lit each sand-anchored sack. I do not remember saying anything: I would not have characterized it this way at the time, but the act of lighting the sacks had an almost sacramental quality that I did not want to interrupt with idle chitchat.
After the task was complete, we went inside to our dark, hushed house. My father’s work was done, but my silent contemplation was not. From my second-story bedroom window, I studied his handiwork: the shimmering lights that seemed at once to beckon visitors and to form a protective shield around our little family. By the time I took one last look before going to sleep, the hour had turned to Christmas. Hours later, I am sure the house was as hectic as ever—but not the night before, when those luminaries flickered.
Throughout my life, I have found seeing lights aglow in the dark to not only be hypnotic but calming, especially in an otherwise frenzied season. On Christmas evenings in my childhood and adolescence, my father would always cede to our demand to be driven to area neighborhoods to look at light displays. As a family, we were always amused by the houses outfitted with the brightest lights—the houses whose occupants seemed most clearly inspired by Clark W. Griswold—but I was always fascinated by the houses that had decorated in a subtler key, especially those with candles in their windows. What serenity the inhabitants of such houses must have, I remember thinking. The drive itself was deeply restful, at least for we passengers: all that was heard was the squeak of the steering wheel, the crunch of the street when the car made a turn or came to a stop, and the occasional murmur of appreciation, from my mother, my brother, or me, at an especially beautiful house.
But the most silent of silent nights came in 2006, when I, a first-time churchgoer in my early twenties, attended a Christmas Eve service at the Episcopal church where, for better or worse, I learned the rudiments of the faith. That night, though, my objections to Episcopalian doctrine and practice mattered not at all. I remember soaking in the hymns and paying closer attention than usual to the sermon. And, when the service had been concluded, I remember being greeted by the vast quiet of a town that had, except for the services at my church and others nearby, long since shut down for the night.
Because I was leaving church at a time of the evening without any worldly distractions—pedestrians, traffic, restaurants—I was able to focus, more than I ever had before, on what the Gospels were telling us. Many years would pass before I again went to church on Christmas Eve, but when I did, I had the same sensation upon leaving: that the world had stopped talking, leaving me in peace to contemplate our immanent joy at Christ’s nativity.
Maybe I feel compelled to remember these moments of Christmas tranquility because the years of Christmas jubilation—the parents and the presents and the attendant commotion—feel so, so far away. But I had all of those things when I was 13, and yet, I was still transfixed by the sublime serenity of those flickering lights in the yard.
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