The Reluctant Caroler

By Teresa Olive

“OH, COME ON, HONEY. It’ll be fun,” my husband, Jeff, pleaded.

“Yeah, Mommy, please go caroling with us,” my three young daughters chimed in.

I stared gloomily out the window at the pouring rain. It was a miserable night, even for western Washington. Then I looked at my family’s expectant faces.

“Oh, all right,” I growled. “Maybe we can sing ‘I’m Dreaming of a Dry Christmas.’”

Jeff hugged me, undaunted by my lack of enthusiasm. I felt more like staying home with Scrooge than caroling in the rain with our Bible study group. Directing two Christmas musicals on top of an endless round of shopping, programs, and parties had given me a bad case of the “bah humbug’s.”

By the time we met our group at a nearby trailer court, the rain was mixed with sleet. I gritted my teeth as the wind whipped the icy fragments into my face. No one else seemed to notice the weather, though, as they all called out cheery greetings to us.

We sloshed up to a brightly lit trailer, singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” The door opened a crack, but no one came out on the covered deck. Then, as we turned to leave, a silver-haired lady peeked out.

“Thanks for the carols,” she said. “My neighbor was robbed last week, and I’m afraid to come out after dark.”

The lady at the next trailer had no such apprehensions. She braved the freezing rain to applaud enthusiastically after each song. Afterward, she insisted we all come inside for cocoa and cookies. She seemed oblivious to the gallons of water we dripped on her floor. Her eyes were glued on the children as they gobbled down cookies. Her face glowed with pride as she showed us pictures of her own faraway grandkids.

By the time we left, I felt warmer in more ways than one.

We had started to pass by the next darkened trailer, when someone in our group called out, “Wait! I think I see Christmas lights inside.”

We began singing “Silent Night,” softly, in case the residents were asleep. The outside light came on, and an elderly man stepped out onto the covered porch to listen. I thought I saw tears glistening on his cheeks.

When the song ended, there was silence for a second. Then the man said, “That was beautiful. I wish my wife could hear you. She loves carols, but she — ” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “She’s got cancer and can’t come out.”

We stood stunned for a moment. Then someone suggested, “Why don’t we try singing up on the porch?”

The man smiled for the first time — a little-boy grin that lit up his face. “Oh, that would be great! I’ll leave the door open and go listen with her.”

Somehow we all managed to cram onto the tiny porch. We sang “O Holy Night” through the open front door. Luciano Pavarotti would have cringed at some of the sour notes, but we didn’t care. We were singing for the audience behind the door and for the audience above the rain clouds.

Several carols later, the man returned to the door with that little-boy grin still on his face. “She says to tell you thanks. It meant so much to her.”

Impulsively, I asked, “Would you mind if we came in for a minute?”

My husband and children stared at me, almost as surprised as I was by my new attitude.

But the man acted as if twenty unexpected guests was an everyday and welcome event. “Of course, come on in,” he said, motioning us into the tiny trailer.

I half expected to see a room full of gloom and darkness. We found the exact opposite. Yes, the frail woman propped up on the living-room couch was obviously very ill. But her eyes sparkled in her weathered face. Even the room seemed to reflect her joy. Christmas lights twinkled cheerfully on a tree, and the scent of cinnamon candles filled the room.

We asked a few questions and discovered they had four children scattered across the globe.

“Unfortunately, none of them can make it home for Christmas this year,” she said. “Maybe next year.”

I marveled at her ability to hope for joy next Christmas instead of dwelling on the pain of the present one. Then she told us of her two-year battle with bone cancer, which had ravaged most of her body. She brushed aside our expressions of sympathy.

“I’m not afraid,” she declared. “I know where I’m going. As soon as I leave this old body, I’ll be with my Lord Jesus.” Then she sighed. “The hardest part is wondering which of us will go first.”

Surprised, we looked at her husband.

“Congestive heart failure,” he explained. “Doctors can’t do anything for me.” He took his wife’s hand and smiled. “But that’s okay. We don’t want to be apart for long.”

Before we left, several people promised to visit them and bring food on Christmas Day. Then we sang one last song: “Joy to the World!” The miracle I saw in that room reminded me of the one in Bethlehem — riches in the midst of poverty, joy in the midst of tears.

“Let every heart prepare Him room.” I realized I had crammed so many things into my life during the last few weeks that I’d no longer had room for joy … and for my Savior. How could I have shut Him out, even for a second? I opened my heart wide to welcome Him back, and felt His love and peace flood in.

“Let heaven and nature sing.” The joy welled up inside me and spilled out in music and praise.

Then, did I only imagine it, or did I really hear the angels sing along?

Teresa Olive is a homemaker, mother of five (ages nine to twenty-five), pastor’s wife, piano teacher, and freelance writer. Her writing ministry includes numerous published articles and five children’s Bible story books. She lives in western Washington, where she enjoys animals, gardening, and singing in the rain.