Christmas Caroling

I went Christmas caroling the other night and I was struck once again how there is much inherent awkwardness in caroling. The concept of bringing music and treats to someone’s door sounds good, especially when it conjures up romantic images of nineteenth century carolers, men in top hats, women in silk bonnets, singing “Good King Wenceslas” up and down streets lined in Tudor architecture.

When you really think about it though, knocking on a family’s door and standing before them to sing multiple verses of a song all while letting cold air blow into their home as they stand there in shirtsleeves and bare feet is somewhat of a strange idea. No one is ever sure where to look, no one really wants to keep eye contact for the duration of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” so eyes usually nervously flick from person to person and then down at the plate of cookies that has been shoved into their hands right before the singing started.

It’s all kind of awkward. At least, I thought.

When we went caroling last week, I approached the event with mild trepidation, wondering where I would look to avoid the uncomfortable levels of eye contact. I volunteered to hold the pile of treats we would be handing out, taking care of the next question of what to do with my hands during the moments of singing. I was as prepared as I could be.

Door number one brought us a family. Answering our knock was the father who, as we sang our number, tried to beckon his children over, of course not to dispel some of the awkwardness, but to allow his children to enjoy our melodious singing. Of course. The next door was a sliver of light as the resident attempted to keep the cold out while we sang our song. We wedged our Saran wrapped cookies inside and headed to door number three.

Answering this door was a little boy who stood looking at us for a few seconds before deserting our song, we assumed to go in search of others to come and listen. We were in the final strains of “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” when the dad came rushing to the door, a smile on his face, and two little girls in his arms who were dripping wet and wrapped in a bathrobe. Thank you! he said. And I do believe he meant it.

Our final stop was to the home of a new mother. We knocked, hoping that we weren’t waking up mother or baby. Finally the door gently opened and we saw inside the home of a brand new family, just a few days old. The only lights were from the small Christmas tree in the corner. The mother, holding her baby, beckoned us in as we sang “Angels We Have Heard on High.” She stood there swaying back and forth with her little bundle as we finished the song. She was crying. (My husband told her after he hoped it wasn’t because of our singing.) I haven’t slept in two days, she said. Thank you.

So caroling was worth it. We brought awkwardness to some, laughter to others, tears to one, and Christmas to all. Including ourselves.