My yearly Christmas Eve "settings" might constitute a book in itself, if I could only remember them all: thirty floors up in an office on New York's Sixth Avenue, answering letters; at a cash register at a toy store or stationer; on an airplane; racing around in a car doing last minute Christmas shopping with the service on the radio; two years ago, listening to the broadcast from Gloucestershire, England, as the sun was setting over still-green hills out the window. In 2010, I joined the choir of New York's Cathedral of St. John the Divine just in time to sing multiple Christmas services, and what a thrill that was. But by far the most memorable Lessons and Carols experience happened back when I lived in Duluth, Minnesota in the early 1990's. For several years in a row, this was my Christmas Eve morning routine: Duluth was (as mentioned several blogs ago) absolutely frigid in late December, and the extreme cold made for an extraordinary, roiling, steaming lake, a sight to behold. I would drive my little red car up the north shore towards Two Harbors, and park in a little pull-off just in time for the service to start. Keeping the car engine and heat on, I sat, mesmerized by the lake's unique "show," listening to every second of the service, from the treble solo that opens "Once In Royal David's City" to the final Bach postlude, In Dulci Jubilo. I basically know the service, and most of its readings, anthems and carols by heart, so I spoke and sang along with tears absolutely pouring down my cheeks. At that point, I had "deep-sixed" English church music, believing girls and women would never have any real opportunities to sing it. I think I found my way to Duluth precisely because it was a world away from the music I loved entirely too much. But every Christmas Eve, I allowed myself this one broadcast and one good cry over my life's strange incongruities. As the service came to an end, I dried my eyes, put my car into drive, and headed back to Duluth where I had a standing invitation to a Scandinavian feast complete with lutefisk, lefse, mashed potatoes, sugar cookies, and white foods of every description. I'm so grateful to the friends who have regularly included me so wholeheartedly in their celebrations, and for the exposure to other traditions and tastes.
Tomorrow, for that ninety minutes, I'll be with a friend who also wants to listen to the broadcast, and we'll cook and bake while singing along to carols. (I hope this aligns with the spirit of the thing!) I've learned a lot of lessons in my six decades of Lessons and Carols, not the least of which is that time and space aren't quite what we think they are. An actual physical presence isn't absolutely necessary for loving participation in this kind of tradition. But having said that, I've also made a decision. Christmas Eve afternoon 2017, I will be in Cambridge, England, lining up to attend the service in person. Because it is time, isn't it? It is time.
May all of you have a beautiful weekend, whatever tradition you are observing, whatever music you are singing, whatever warmth you are choosing to chase the cold and dark away. Blessings, all.
