Christmas Carols

This isn’t a memory of Emma, but it is definitely a story of Emma. It happened just two days ago.

One of Emma’s friends had arranged to stop by on Monday evening to bring us something. A little past 6:30 pm the doorbell rang as expected and we opened the door to find Emma’s friend with a box in her hands. We invited her in, but she hesitated, placing the box just inside the door on the floor and then stepping back. “Well, I have a surprise for you,” she said. With that, two more of Emma’s friends rounded the corner and walked up our front steps, singing a Christmas carol. The tears started streaming down my face as they sang. It was so sweet that they were trying to bring us a little Christmas joy.  We urged all three to come in, and the first friend piped up again. “Well,” she said, “there’s more.”

With that a whole crew of Emma’s friends emerged from the shadows and filed into our house, singing as they went. There were fifteen of them in all. They strolled onto our living room stage, the place where Emma had performed her shows for us for so many years, and formed a semi-circle by our Christmas tree. They worked their way seamlessly through a carefully planned repertoire of Christmas music, complete with solos and duets and four part harmonies. There were tears streaming down my face as they sang, but they courageously kept going. They understood the tears. They were prepared for the tears. And they were on a mission.

When they finished, they presented us with doughnuts and Christmas cookies and gladly dug into both when we offered them. They sat in our living room for the next hour telling stories and laughing and being silly and for a little while, my heart felt lighter. Each of us there that night so clearly carries Emma in our hearts. And as we gathered together in our living room, I felt her presence much more than her absence. That, I think, is a Christmas miracle.