In the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.
~Robert Ingersoll
I was an eager ten-year-old the night I led the way up the worn old sidewalk, excited it was finally my turn to summon our audience. I took the steps up to the porch two at a time and rang the doorbell. There was a stirring in the house and in an instant I was back on the front lawn with my fellow Christmas carolers. The porch light flickered on and an elderly woman who had once taught me Sunday school made her way carefully out of the house, steadying herself against the porch railing. I can still remember the smile that illuminated her face as twenty voices came together to serenade her with “Silent Night.”
The magic of that night and the joy of the Christmas season stayed with me well into adulthood. A Christmas caroling hayride through the streets of our small town seemed the perfect way to carry on one of my favorite holiday traditions while creating wonderful new memories with my tribe.
The men of the family didn’t quite share my enthusiasm for riding on a bumpy trailer while singing songs to strangers in the cold. My son, Josh, opted to ride alongside his dad in the cab of the truck as they pulled a flatbed loaded with hay and cackling Christmas carolers.
As luck would have it, Josh and my husband Joey were the only two musically gifted members of our family. When my daughter Kyley and I joined voices in a heartfelt attempt at “Silent Night,” it didn’t sound like the magical rendition I remembered from my childhood. The most melodious sound that escaped our lips was our laughter following each song. Our lack of vocal talent didn’t keep Kyley and me from making a joyful noise. Our family did, after all, believe laughter to be the sweetest music of all. Oh, the precious memories that were being made!
Our Christmas caroling capers became well known in the area. Each year as the holiday season approached, I would receive phone calls from family and friends eager to join in the fun. While it wasn’t our only December tradition, it had become the one that Kyley and I most looked forward to. Well, that and Ky’s birthday party.
Born on December 23, Kyley was my “almost” Christmas baby. Every year, despite a full schedule of holiday gatherings and a stint as my church’s pageant director, I would brave the throngs of holiday shoppers to buy birthday presents. Two days before Christmas I would go all out decorating our home with balloons and streamers in shades of pink and all of the family would come together to celebrate Kyley.
I was in full-on birthday shopping mode December 18, 2008, when I called Kyley from a Target parking lot and asked her for a few additional gift ideas. I had checked off each item on her holiday shopping list but it didn’t look like much sitting on the back seat of my car. “I have everything I need, Mom,” she responded. “I’m sure I’ll love whatever y’all give me. You don’t need to buy me anything else.”
I told Kyley that she was a good girl and I was proud of her. We exchanged “I love yous” and I hung up the phone.
It would be our last conversation. That night, exactly one week before Christmas, Kyley died in a car accident just down the street from our home. She was buried on December 23rd, her seventeenth birthday.
There was no Christmas caroling or birthday party that year, or the year after. Our home, which had always been filled with the laughter of friends and loved ones during the holiday season, was now quiet.
I found I could not bring myself to carry on the traditions of our family when one of our members was no longer with us. I did not want to betray my daughter by making new memories without her. Kyley was now in my past and I feared that if I attempted to live the life I had before she left us, I would be moving further away from her.
“You believe in Heaven don’t you?” a friend asked me one day. I nodded in response. “Then you have to believe that Kyley is waiting for you in your future. Every day you live brings you one day closer to her.” It was a life-changing revelation. This new perspective would allow me to move forward guilt-free.
That December 23rd, for the first time since Kyley left us, I hosted a Christmas caroling hayride for family and friends. I spent hours preparing food, making hot chocolate, and binding homemade songbooks containing what had once been some of our favorite holiday hymns.
As the guests began to arrive, I said a hurried prayer asking God to give me the strength to remember Kyley that evening with more smiles than tears. I thanked Him for the true miracle of Christmas — the gift of His Son, and I asked for one small favor… a sign that Kyley was still with us. I made a quick mental note of all the things that would qualify, in my mind, as divine assurance of Ky’s presence. Ladybugs and fireworks rounded out the list as I closed with a heartfelt, “Amen.”
Loved ones sat side-by-side on bales of hay, songbooks in hand. We were a more somber group than years before and I felt a responsibility to lighten the mood. I managed a joke about my singing and a few friends joined in with some good-natured ribbing. There were a few chuckles and everyone seemed to relax. As we prepared to sing our first hymn, I realized I hadn’t thought to bring flashlights. It was dark and for those without cell phones it was nearly impossible to read the words to the songs. I yelled for my husband to pull up under a nearby streetlight. I took a deep breath as we joined together to sing “Silent Night.” The first note to escape our lips was drowned out by a deafening boom. A shower of sparks rained down upon our party as people instinctively scrambled over the sides of the trailer to escape the barrage. And then… silence.
“What just happened?” someone asked.
People turned their illuminated cell phone screens toward the now dark streetlight. Something had caused it to blow at the exact moment we’d started our song.
“Wow! That was crazy! Sounded like someone set off fireworks right above our heads!” Someone else added, “Looked like it, too!”
Fireworks? I thought. Yes, of course! My sign!
A rumble tickled my throat and before I realized what was happening I heard a familiar sound — laughter… heartfelt, sidesplitting laughter. And it was coming from me! The joyful noise grew as family and friends joined in. It was sweet music… the sound of old traditions and new memories being made. It was the sound of healing hearts. It was the sound of Christmas.
~Melissa Wootan
