Songs of Christmas Read online

  She was in the sanctuary, working on the well-known Advent hymn they would sing on Sunday, “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” when she heard the distinct sound of a ladder rattling just outside the big doors. She turned to see Gabriel walking into the sanctuary, toting the long ladder and his canvas tool bag.

  He was taking care not to scratch the varnished wood moldings around the doorway, so it took him a moment to notice her. He smiled, looking surprised and pleased. “Am I interrupting you again? I can come back later.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just about done here.” She was, too, and just about to leave for lunch, though she did suddenly consider staying a little longer to talk to him.

  “If I’m making too much noise, just let me know. It shouldn’t take me that long.”

  Amanda was sorry to hear that but kept her voice bright as she replied, “No problem.” She turned back to the piano, made a few more notes near the end of the hymn, then gathered up her music.

  Gabriel had set up the ladder nearby and climbed up about halfway. There was a light tapping sound as he began to work on a section of a window. Amanda closed the piano and walked over to watch him. It looked as if he was stripping away the thick, dark frame around a section of glass. He gently pried and tapped with a sharp tool until fragments of glass broke apart into his hand. “Watch out! Some of this might fall near you.”

  Amanda stepped back, but he seemed to catch the pieces easily.

  “I know, it looks like I’m making it worse, right?”

  “Well, yes,” Amanda admitted with a smile.

  “`If you want to make an omelet, you have to break some eggs,’” he said. “Same with fixing stained glass. This piece was cracked and was going to fall out soon anyway. I’ll take these fragments back to my shop to match the color as closely as possible, then make a new piece to replace it.”

  “How do you manage to knock out just the one section?”

  “That part is a little tricky. The answer is: Very carefully.” He glanced down at her and grinned. “I just want to make sure the church doesn’t get any feathered visitors before I patch this up.” He was quickly covering the hole in the window with a bit of plastic and duct tape. Amanda was mesmerized by how quickly and smoothly his hands moved as he worked. “I’ll have this one fixed before Sunday. The rest shouldn’t take too much longer.”

  Amanda wondered what he meant by that. Would he be around until Christmas, or be done before then?

  There were three arched windows on each side of the sanctuary and a round window at the base of the steeple, visible behind the balcony. Quite a few of the windows were patched together with duct tape and plastic, and she secretly hoped they would take longer than he predicted.

  “That’s my favorite window,” she said after a moment. “Maybe because it’s so Christmassy.”

  The window he was working on depicted the manger on Christmas night, with Mary and Joseph on either side of the crèche and the holy infant swaddled in white, the stable animals looking on at the humble scene. The sky above the manger was a mosaic of dark blue glass, with a large, golden star hovering above.

  Gabriel nodded. “I love this one, too.” He leaned back a bit to look up at the window. “I love the placement of the figures, the way their bodies bend toward the cradle. The colors blend perfectly, and there’s so much expression . . . It’s really amazing work.”

  “Yes, it is amazing. I could never have explained it quite that way,” she admitted. “But that is why I like it so much.”

  He climbed down from the ladder and was suddenly quite close to her. “Which is your next favorite?” he asked curiously.

  “I’m not sure,” she said honestly, gazing at the other, beautiful choices. “I like the one with the dove,” she said, pointing to the first window on the other side of the sanctuary. “It’s a little different from the others, a lot brighter . . . How old are these windows? Are they as old as the church?”

  “Not quite. The church was originally built in the Colonial era. But the early settlers didn’t use stained glass in their churches, even though they had the technology and it’s a tradition that goes back to the Middle Ages.”

  “That makes sense. They were Protestants, so I guess they were trying to break away from those traditions of adornment,” she said.

  “That was it exactly. But there was a fire in this church in the early 1800s. Everything burned down except for the stone walls. When it was rebuilt, which took years, a wealthy church member donated the windows. Cyrus Krupp, I think his name was. Anyway, by that time the taste and style of church decor had loosened up a bit, and the congregation was very happy to have the more colorful windows installed.”

  “I can see why. They’re very beautiful, and the light coming through them makes the sanctuary look . . . well, even more sacred.”

  “Yes, the colors are perfect. I think the artists who created these scenes did a wonderful job. Though there’s no real record of who they were,” he added, gazing around. “These are probably the nicest windows of any church in the area . . . and I’ve seen all of them,” he added with a grin. She smiled back, but before she could reply, he said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go on like that. You asked me a simple question and you got an art history lesson.”

  “It was interesting,” Amanda assured him. “I’ve looked at these windows for years and never really appreciated them. It’s sad, though, that the artists don’t get any credit for their beautiful work.”

  “In some ways,” he agreed. “But maybe they didn’t want any. I think that designing these windows had to take a deep spiritual commitment and inspiration. Maybe they felt the usual recognition was not appropriate, the way some people feel about an act of charity. Sometimes it’s more satisfying to do work like that anonymously.”

  Amanda nodded. She understood what he meant. The scenes were very evocative and did inspire a feeling of contemplation, very much like the right music during the service. Something about both the music and the light pouring through the stained-glass windows seemed to lift her heart.

  She turned and looked back at Gabriel. He was not only attractive but thoughtful. She had expected just a quick, casual chat and instead he had changed the way she saw the church—or at least its windows.

  She was about to walk into town for a bite to eat and thought she might ask if he wanted to join her. It wasn’t usually her style to ask a guy out, but Gabriel was so easy to talk to, she felt as if she had already known him a long time, though it had only been a few days.

  But before she could summon up the nerve, Reverend Ben appeared at the back of the sanctuary. “Amanda, there you are. I’m glad I caught you. Mrs. Honeyfield is just typing up the program, and I wondered if you could give it a quick proofread.”

  “Yes, of course, Reverend. I’ll be right there,” Amanda told him. The reverend smiled and nodded, then disappeared.

  “Well, duty calls,” Gabriel said lightly. “I did enjoy our talk, Amanda.”

  “So did I,” she said, feeling suddenly shy. “It was very . . . informative.”

  “Really? Any time you need to know more about windows, I’m your man.”

  He caught her gaze and held it. Amanda felt her breath catch but tried hard to hide it. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

  Hugging the binder of music, she turned and headed out of the sanctuary.

  One window down, but several to go, she told herself. There would be plenty of chances to ask Gabriel to have lunch . . . if he didn’t ask her first.

  * * *

  AMANDA SCANNED THE ROSTER MRS. WILMOTT HAD LEFT. THERE were twenty-one singers in the choir. Glancing up, she did a quick head count and was relieved to see that practically all of them had shown up for rehearsal. Small groups were gathering and warming up, going over their parts. She could immediately tell that there were some strong voices, which was definitely a plus, and also some that were weaker. She knew there had been no auditions for the choir; anyone in the congregation was welcome to j
oin. Which was as it should be in a church, and part of the joy of it, Amanda thought. But it was also a challenge to her now.

  At seven sharp she called the group to order and asked them to take their places on the risers. They were not required to stand during the entire service, so there were chairs set on the risers for them.

  Amanda took her seat at the piano and turned to them. “I’m glad to see that you’re all here tonight. That shows real commitment.” It might have also meant that they were curious to check out their new director, but Amanda ignored that possibility. “I’m sure it’s hard to switch music directors like this right before Christmas. A little like getting a new coach just as you’re ready to go into the World Series.”

  “Well, maybe it’s not quite that hard,” drawled Jack Sawyer, who owned the Christmas tree farm outside of town, drawing a round of laughter from the group.

  “I heard you all sing on Sunday, and I think there’s a lot of talent here,” Amanda went on with a smile. “I think that you’re a very good choir,” she added, stretching her opinion a bit. “But I know that with a little more work, you can be a great choir. I really mean that.”

  She paused to see how they were taking this. It was hard to tell. Everyone was older than she was, some by many decades. Her aunt Jessica sat in the soprano section and gave her an encouraging smile. So did Sophie Potter.

  “Mrs. Wilmott left some notes about the hymns you’ve been working on, and I’m not going to make any changes.”

  They all looked relieved to hear that. Reverend Ben and the former music director had picked out a list of familiar holiday hymns and carols. Amanda imagined that the group had sung many of them before, so that was a plus. How well they sang them was the question. And could they improve at this late date?

  “As we all know, Christmas Day is the high point of the church calendar, and the worship music is so important. Reverend Ben says it’s part of what helps us be in touch with the divine. So let’s work hard to sing these beautiful hymns in a way that no one in this congregation will ever forget.”

  She asked them to stand and started them off with a few minutes of warm-up exercises for their lips and tongues. These were mainly nonsense sounds, sung to tunes that went up and down the scales. Some had lyrics, like “Many mumbling mice are making midnight music in the moonlight, mighty nice.” But the exercises were also a good way to break the ice and get everyone to relax, which was important for a good sound from the group as well.

  While they ran through their drills, Amanda assessed the singers. The bass and tenor sections were predictably all male, with the exception of Olga Ingram, a retired schoolteacher fairly new to the church, who had a very low voice for a woman and sang tenor. Frank Borge, who sang bass, stood on the highest tier at the back of the room and was probably the strongest and most polished in the group. He had toured in light opera and musical theater and still performed with local acting groups. Amanda already sensed that he took himself very seriously and was a bit of a male diva, if there was such a thing. But the others seemed to respect him, so it wouldn’t be hard to give him the solos he might feel were his due.

  Claire North, who lived on Angel Island and helped run the inn there, sang soprano. She had a surprisingly strong, clear voice for a woman her age and a wonderful range, Amanda noted. She was a perfect candidate for solos. Sophie Potter had another lovely soprano voice, and so did her aunt Jessica.

  They warmed up next with some scales, and finally, Amanda was ready to start rehearsing the anthem, introit, and hymns they would sing on Sunday. She wanted to run through some of the other carols that were scheduled for Christmas Day, as well, and hoped they would have enough time.

  The choral introit was the first piece of music in the service and sung before the reverend’s call to worship. This week, Reverend Ben had chosen “We Wait in Hope for the Lord,” in keeping with the Advent theme of waiting for the birth of the Messiah. The lyrics were based on Psalm 33 and were both comforting and inspiring.

  The short piece was familiar to the group and they performed it fairly well, though not as smoothly as Amanda would have liked. She worked with them on their energy and diction, noting when to pause for a breath and when not to.

  The next run-through was an improvement, and the last and final, even better yet. She was encouraged and turned next to the most important hymn, which the choir would perform for the congregation, “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.”

  “I’ve sung this many times without ever really thinking of the words or their meaning,” Amanda admitted. “But Reverend Ben explained to me that the hymn was a favorite for Advent, dating back to at least the twelfth century, originally composed in Latin for Advent vespers. It’s based on a passage from the Book of Isaiah in the Old Testament—a prophecy that God would send a sign to the people of Israel, called Emmanuel—and a passage from the gospel of Matthew in the New Testament that states the fulfillment of the prophecy in the birth of Jesus of Nazareth.”

  “It’s a beautiful hymn,” Sophie Potter said, “and a classic.”

  Amanda ran through the piece once with them, eager to see how well they knew it. Not very well at all, she thought. The tempo was slow and it was always a challenge, even for a professional choir, to keep the song from dragging, as if they were each tugging along a sack of bricks.

  There was also some mumbling, with lyrics not crisply pronounced. Amanda decided to work with the bass section first. She coached them after they ran through the first few measures, then had an idea.

  “I’d like to do something a little different with this piece. Nothing too radical, but it should make the performance a little more dramatic.” All eyes turned toward her curiously. She had them now, Amanda realized.

  “Frank, I’d like you to sing the opening measures, solo, a cappella. Like a lone voice in the desert, calling up to heaven . . . ‘Come, savior. Come to us. God promised you were coming and we need you. We’re suffering,’” she added, paraphrasing the lyrics.

  Amanda next turned to Claire North. “After Frank sings the first measure . . . and to the middle of the second,” she said, checking the music again, “I want you to sing solo, the next two measures, until the refrain. As if you were an answering voice. Then I’ll start playing the accompaniment, and everyone will join together in the refrain,” she added. “You’ll all sing in unison for the next three verses. Then at the very end, we’ll close with Frank and Claire singing solo again . . . How does that sound?”

  The group looked pleased. Something new and different took them out of their comfort zone a bit but also made things more interesting. Frank was eager to show what he could do with this. He stood a little taller and held out his sheet music. Claire sat up a little higher as well, getting ready for her part.

  Amanda practiced with Frank and Claire first, while the others waited. Their solos were relatively brief, but sounded quite beautiful, she thought.

  Next, she rehearsed the sopranos and altos, then the basses and tenors, and then they put it all together. The hymn had seven verses, but there were only four measures of music for each verse. Still, it was long enough, Amanda thought.

  They had to sing it several times and work on the harmonies, especially the rising moments, which called for more energy and expression.

  Finally, they seemed to have it down. They all looked a bit tired, and Amanda realized that over an hour had passed; she wondered if maybe Mrs. Wilmott hadn’t worked them quite as hard in rehearsals.

  “Good job. It sounds great,” she praised them. Now if they could only remember the nuances on Sunday. “Let’s go over the second hymn quickly. I promise I won’t keep you much longer.”

  No one groaned out loud, though there were a few questioning glances. But they dutifully turned to another piece in their binders, “Watchers, Tell Us of the Night,” which they would sing on Sunday with the congregation.

  The hymn was short, only three verses, and once they had it down fairly well, Amanda was satisfied. She didn’t wan
t to risk a mutiny at her first meeting with them.

  “Thanks, everyone. Please be at church by nine on Sunday morning so we can warm up and rehearse a bit.”

  They all looked quite relieved to be released; a few of the members on the higher risers practically jumped down. Others, like her aunt and Sophie, took their time.

  “That was very invigorating, Amanda.” Sophie tugged on her big coat and fastened the buttons. “Sometimes I feel like I could sing all night.”

  Amanda smiled. What spirit she had. “I almost did make you sing all night, Sophie. I sort of lost track of the time,” she confessed.

  “It was a longer practice than we’re used to,” her aunt Jessica admitted. “But I think we needed it. We need to get into better shape for Christmas.”

  “I agree,” Claire North said. “It’s like exercising. No sweat, no gain. I’m going to practice my solo at home,” she promised Amanda. “I’ll be well prepared for Sunday. Thank you for picking me out.”

  “Thank you, Claire.” Amanda stood and cleared the sheet music from the piano. “I’m sure you’ll be wonderful.”

  A few more members bid her good night, then Amanda was alone in the sanctuary again. She sat on the piano bench, feeling suddenly quite drained. She had worked hard, even though she hadn’t been singing. It was like coaching a team from the sidelines. It was almost easier to just get out there and play, she realized.

  She thought they had improved tonight, but she was still a little nervous about Sunday’s service and positively panicked when she thought about Christmas. She had assumed this job would be easy. But the Christmas service, she could now tell, was going to take everything that she and the choir had to give. And Christmas was less than three weeks away.