Why it is a "Silent Night"

Copyright © 2017

by Ralph F. Couey

"Silent Night,

Holy Night.

All is calm,

All is bright."

--Joseph Mohr

It was Christmas Eve in a small town nestled among the mountains of Western Pennsylvania.  It had been a very active, very joyful day.  Three of our four adult children had come into town to spend Christmas together with us.  Our century-old Victorian house had fairly burst with laughter and singing, and the running feet of young grandkids.  It had been snowing most of the day, about nine inches thus far, and we had all been outside throwing snowballs, making snowmen and snow angels.  I couldn't rustle up any sleds thanks to the immutable law of scarcity in a small town, or we would have taken on the steep hills in the area.  We had all eaten way too much food, played games by the fire, and generally had reveled in the singular feeling of togetherness for a family which had started to fly before the four winds.

As the evening grew late, everyone finally retired and the house grew quiet once again.  I had stayed in the living room, having finished the round of stories for our grandkids.  I was watching the fire, ostensibly preparing to bank the remaining coals before retiring, but mainly soaking in a rare kind of joy.  The stockings were all up on the mantelpiece, greenery hung in graceful loops along the walls.  Over by the window, the Christmas tree stood, glowing softly and illuminating the many gaily-wrapped boxes that awaited that special joy that could only be Christmas morning.

I glanced outside the window to see that the winds had died down, and what was falling from the skies now were those big, fluffy flakes; Norman Rockwell snow.  Enchanted, I donned my coat and hat and wandered out onto the front porch, closing the door behind me.  I stood there for the longest time, listening to the silence.  Snowfall has a muffling effect on sound, and the dark windows of the houses around bore mute testimony that the town slept peacefully.  It was a truly beautiful moment, one that I knew would stay with me forever.

It was so quiet that I fancied I could hear the barely-detectable sound of those flakes settling onto the already bountiful blanket of white.  Unbidden, the words of "Silent Night" floated into my consciousness, and I understood the emotions that must have visited that young Catholic priest when he first penned the words as the snow fell softly on Salzburg, Austria.  The Spirit of Christmas can be an elusive thing, but for those few moments, it was upon me.

Christmas is for most of us a month-long sprint of shopping, partying, and planning.  The days are filled almost to the minute, and while it has become a part of the season, for many that frenetic pace becomes the season.  It becomes all to easy to forget what Christmas was meant to be.  That pace also, I think, contributes to the emotional collapse that happens in January and February.  A month of pure adrenaline, and then...nothing.

We need those moments of silence; those times of reflection.  When we can quiet our lives, and still our minds, then like the sound of those snowflakes landing, we begin to hear and see all that magic that otherwise would be hidden and drowned out by the sheer volume of our lives.  In those moments, meaning is revealed.  We can know Christmas as a time of gathering and renewal; a chance to repair broken relationships, and bring deeper meaning to those we already have.  It is a time when we need to look at the world through the eyes of a child, and feel it through their sweet and tender hearts.  Mostly, it is a time when it's good to just...be.  

As I stood on my porch that cold, snowy night, midnight drifted in, and Christmas Eve became Christmas Day.  I thought about my family inside, safe and warm in their beds, and how happy I was that we were together, even for just a few days, a rare thing when children become adults.  I held that happiness carefully in my hands, and held it up to my face.  Breathing deeply, I let that joy fill me.

Since that beautiful night, I have made it a point every year to spend a few silent moments thinking about Christmas, and surrounding myself with that very special kind of joy.  By doing that, I ensure that I will not give in to the rush and crush of shopping, of getting lost in the logistical nightmares of partying and gifting, but returning to that space of awareness in which Christmas exists in perfect purity.

This will be my 62nd Christmas, and while there have been far too many good ones to count, this one stays in my heart as one of the best, a still, silent night when my family came home for Christmas.