24 Hours - The Night I

11:00 PM

We file into the church and it's already 1,000 degrees. The old sanctuary hasn't been retrofitted with a successful air conditioning system since its construction in 1495. As a result, the 200 old people and 400,000 candles that line the pews make for a fairly uncomfortable atmosphere, to say the least. Fortunately, the suit and tie I'm wearing will be able to absorb a copious amount of sweat before leaking through. At least that's some consolation.

My uncle, aunt, and grandparents are already there to greet my family. Poppop is wearing the same suit he does every year. It seems my brother won the bet over my grandmother's sweater- he bet red, I bet green. I always forget that she likes to match the flowers. For some reason the heat hasn't seemed to affect any of them. It makes you wonder, really. How do old people survive at such temperatures? It's like they're covered in titanium shelling.

We file in and jump into the same order we always do in the Herman-Walsh aisle. My uncle and aunt are at the far right end, followed to the left by Dad, Mom, my brother, me, my grandmother, and my grandfather. We've come to time our arrival so perfectly that we only wait about 90 seconds for the service to start. In our minds, there's no sense arriving too early and greeting the old people we can't remember. As interesting as Mrs. Rhimathy's stories about her cats are, well ... frankly, they're not that interesting.

The Pastor stands up and begins the welcome to the service. He's the same old Pastor with the same old greeting and same old parables about the holiday. His voice is far too soothing and well fitted to the warm sanctuary; even despite the coffee I chugged, I can feel myself going. I actually get excited when it's time to sing the first hymn- the standing will surely wake me out of this stupor. That's when I remember the same thing every year. The hymns are so slow that it's actually possible to fall asleep standing up. The only thing keeping me awake at this point are the cramps falling out of my back muscles. Who's idea was it to build pews out of hard wood, arched forward ... Jesus.

And so the service rolls on for a whole 55 minutes. My brother and I have exhausted our supply of scratch paper, and the excitement of tossing a dollar into the collection plate was lost a scant 18 years ago. I've mocked the trumpet player/organist duet about 15 times. My grandmother has asked me to quiet down. I'm also fairly certain that I've lost enough moisture from sweating that I'm moments away from hallucinating my way into a spiritual journey. Why the hell do we do this every year?

Suddenly the lights go down. Candles are passed around with an efficiency that once again belies the many years this church has held this service. The heat hasn't dissipated, but for some reason seems more appropriate and fitting in the darkness. I sit up to get a better view of what's about to happen. Even my brother and father, usually the two most stolid members of the family, take a newfound interest in the proceedings. My grandmother has noticeably taken a set of tissues out of her purse. Maybe this will be the year she doesn't cry, but I doubt it.

At a subtle and theatrical pace, a man stands up from the choir and reaches the altar. He pauses there for a moment, looking out past the congregation toward the back of the church. He is obviously intense. His eyes reveal a focus learned from many performances and songs having been sung in his lifetime. The opening notes- the same familiar arpeggios, played ever so softly- begin to rise and fall in the darkness around him. At the last moment before he begins, a smirk forms in the corner of his mouth.

I smile too, as my uncle takes his first breath into the song that will announce the beginning of Christmas. It's 11:56 ... right on time.

His strong tenor voice, well learned in the ways of stage projection, rebounds off the walls with a sudden excitement. The congregation experiences a visible jolt out of the comatose sobriety they had been falling into the last hour. Even the opening words, sung at a comparatively soft timbre and volume, have already entranced everyone watching. As always, it's easy to see that my uncle is good at what he does. Very good.

The song continues in its rolling, oscillating melodies from low to high, soft to loud, contemplative to joyful and back again. The underlying but consistent crescendo moves the hearts of those listening as their emotions follow the words of the hymn. My grandmother has begun to cry- looks like my brother won this bet, too. I thought she would at least make it to the second verse this year. Damn.

Finally the song reaches its peak. Tension builds- we all the know the melody, and despite my uncle's proficiency we always doubt whether or not that top note will come out. An octave jump to the top of your range requires a hell of a level of skill, even for the best performers. He sings closer to the note, ever louder, ever more passionate, ever more beautiful, until finally he goes for it-

And then my uncle is singing the final "Noel" as loud and high as he can. The raw power of his emotion and voice burst through the church and congregation around us. Both my mother and grandmother are crying now, and my own eyes are moist with the meaning of the moment. He holds the note, and holds, until suddenly he lets go. An infinitely long second of silence follows, his voice echoing through the arches above us. The organ comes back in, my uncle sings the final words, and then the song is over. He departs the altar without a word.

The Pastor rises slowly, stands before the congregation, and opens his arms. "It is 12:01 in the morning. A Merry Christmas to you all- may the love and guidance of our Lord embrace you and all whom you love on this day. Go in peace."

The cool night air outside the church is the most soothing sensation I've ever experienced. It always seems to be a clear night on Christmas Eve, and the stars shine against the night. We say goodnight to the family, congratulate my uncle, and jump back in the car for the ride home.

I'm not a very religious person, and for the most part I'm not moved by organized religion of any kind. Seeing my uncle sing on Christmas Eve, though, and watching my family come together for just those few minutes at the end of the service as his voice rises and falls ... well, hell. I guess we all believe in something, don't we?

12:10 AM