My mother had a beautiful mezzo-soprano voice and sang professionally in the New York metropolitan area before marrying my Dad, a Presbyterian minister, and moving out of the area to a number of churches, eventually settling in a small village in upstate New York.
Watching her harness her immense voice in a teeny church choir filled with warbling sopranos and awkward adolescents (like myself) was to witness a woman of immense grace. Even in my snarkiest teenage years I could not NOT be moved by her gorgeous voice and willingness to blend with the unblendable ranks of the Dryden Presbyterian Church choir.
Each Christmas Eve, it was a tradition to end the service with “Silent Night.” We had the usual candles that dripped and nipped at our hands as the wax melted. Once all the verses where over, my Dad would blow out his candle, signaling us all to do the same. We then sat plunged in darkness as my mother, unaccompanied, sang a final verse in German.
Most of the congregation knew of the tradition and anticipated it eagerly. Even more poignant to me was to witness those who had no clue it would happen and would suck in their breath, hair going up on the back of their necks as my mother’s immense voice enveloped them. Even the most hard core atheists could at least believe in the power of that prayerful moment.
It’s been 22 years since she died, and each Christmas Eve I leave whatever service I’ve found humming her last, unsung verse.