I watched with fondness today as the little children’s church choir sang out their Christmas tunes. Brought me back to my childhood at The First English Lutheran Church Christmas concerts, while in my formative years.
It is a moment my sweet mother related to me years later. I was obliviously earnest and childlike at the time. Don’t really know how old I was.
A simple country boy, it was always special to drive the maroon Dodge into town for Church and Sunday School with the town kids. They always appeared to be better groomed, knowledgeable and cosmopolitan, but I didn’t mind. So when 30 of us practiced for the Christmas performance, I was most diligent, appreciating the importance and privilege of this coming event.
When our director told us to memorize the words to the carol, I did. When she told us to practice singing very loud, I did.
The church was packed with the faithful that night, proud parents mixed with the devout. There were no cameras, recordings; no buzzing, parishioners sat respectably with the bygone reverence so missing today. The sacred service began, and soon it was the turn of the children’s choir, clad in pink stoles, with big black bows. We rose to present our music, pre-schoolers? Don’t remember.
My late mother tells the story. It turned out that no one had memorized the words. No one sang loud. Except Stanley, the Country Kid, oblivious to his surroundings, confidently belting out the words in a loud soprano. Aghast at the other few mumblers standing beside Stanley, the horrified director turned her sole attention to the only singer who had done as he was told.
lt was my first ever solo performance, sung before a proud mother and an amused Christmas audience.
