First Christmas

“We only use the country church for Easter and Christmas services.” The words echoed in David’s head as he turned off the highway onto the side road. The prairie sky was dark except for the myriad of stars. Tonight was Christmas Eve, and David wanted to get to the church early to familiarize himself with the old building.

“I hope I can find it in the dark,” David muttered. The heater in his VW was going full blast and even then, it seemed to be losing the battle to the -30 air outside. “Two miles south, then four miles east, then south for another ten miles. Why would anyone put a church a way out here anyway?”

The ditches were piled high with drifted snow, level with the road in most places. The only way David could distinguish the road from the ditch was a spattering of gravel on the road and an occasional remnant of weeds on the side of it. David drove slowly, kept his eyes on the odometer, and finally saw the lights of the church in the distance.

“Someone must be there already,” David groaned. “That’s just great. Now I won’t be able to walk through the service like I planned.” David pulled into the church yard and up to the side door. A yellow pickup was parked by the door. “Sam Mikkelson. Great.”

David was just out of the truck when Sam stuck his head out the door. “Just wanted to make sure the furnace was on,” he yelled as a greeting. “I turned it on yesterday, but you never know about these old furnaces.” Humph, he laughed. The sound reminded David of an old sow he saw out at the Svenson place. When Helger Svenson threw chop into the trough, the old sow grunted a humph, and waddled over to feed. David wasn’t sure if it was a humph of delight or a humph of warning. But Sam Mikkelson’s laugh sounded just like it. Or was it that Sam always had fresh manure on his boots and the pungent stench of pig manure was always heavy and sweet around him?

“Have to fire up the furnace a day ahead of Christmas for the old girls,” Sam laughed. “`It’s always cold,’ they say. ‘Warm it up so the pews get warm,’ they say. So I do. Wouldn’t want their precious bottoms getting cold, would we.” Humph, humph, humph. David wasn’t sure if this was a comment he should laugh at or not; he didn’t want the rumour starting that the new pastor liked off colour jokes.

“I’m going to run home to pick up the wife and kids for service. Catch you later.” Sam crunched through the snow, jumped in his truck and roared on to the road. David went in.

6:00 p.m. One hour to service. David walked through the empty church. It was plain. A couple of old banners hung on the wall proclaiming, “Christ is Risen,” (Easter) and “Glory to the Newborn King,” (Christmas). An Advent wreath, suspended from a pole stood just behind the pulpit. Two white ribbons held the plastic holly leafed wreath in place, while candles, three blue, one pink candle peeked through the forest of dusty green leaves. One white candle was perched atop the pole. “They could have at least bought new candles,” David mumbled.

This was David’s first Christmas Eve service. After graduating in May, David spent six months in the city working on a research project for his professor. He arrived in his first parish on December 1. A rural parish, two hundred miles from the safety and sanity of the city was David’s first charge. This was the first time David had been in the country save for his flying trips down the interstate. David planned to do the service, then jump in his trusty VW and head back to the city. His fiancée awaited.

“There you are pastor.” The voice brought David back to the present. “I thought that was your car out there.” Mrs. Severson came up the aisle, brushing snow off her coat. “It’s starting to snow,” she said, adding ominously, “I hope it doesn’t get too bad.” David smiled. Mrs. Severson was the soloist. She sang at every special service: funerals, baptisms, confirmations, Easter, Christmas, anniversaries. Had done so for years, David discovered while reading through the archived church bulletins: A lovely performance of How Great Thou Art was given by Olga Severson, or, A Special thanks to O. Severson for her beautiful rendition of O Holy Night. Olga Severson, David learned, had a repertoire of six songs: How Great Thou Art (anniversary), Children of the Heavenly Father (baptism), What a Friend We Have in Jesus (funeral), Jerusalem (Easter), Yield Not into Temptation (confirmation), and tonight’s feature, O Holy Night.

“It was clear as a bell when I came,” David answered, not entirely sure that Mrs. Severson hadn’t sprayed fake snow on herself for effect. He recalled, however, his conversation this morning with Mabel Amundson. David was at Prairieview Estates, giving Communion to several of his parishioners who lived there. “There’s a storm brewing, Reverend Pastor,” she squeaked in a voice that sounded like Mickey Mouse had swallowed a mouthful of helium. “I can feel it in my ankle.”

“Oh, Mrs. Amundson,” David soothed, “the forecast is for clear skies and cold temperatures until the New Year.”

“Reverend Pastor,” Mabel squawked, “those damned weather people don’t know nothing. My ankle aches like hell, and when it aches like hell, there is a storm brewing. It has been that way since I broke it by stepping in a gopher hole when I was six—and that was 91 years ago. Don’t you go listening to those damned weather people.”

David had no response to that. With ears burning and red faced, he simply muttered, “Yes, ma’am.” They hadn’t warned him in seminary about ninety-seven year-old women with tongues as sharp as razor blades.

Olga had marched off to the piano and was arranging her music on a rusted old music stand. She plunked a few notes, then tried to imitate their sound as her warm up. David wasn’t sure if the piano was out of tune, Mrs. Severson’s vocal cords were stretched too tightly, or both, but the two sounds didn’t match. Not even close. If David were a Catholic he would have crossed himself.

Humph, humph. “Got the wife and kids, Pastor. This here is Helga,” David shook her hand, “and these here are Cheryl, Daryl, Lana, Tana, Jill and Bill.” Humph, humph. David glanced down to see if Sam had changed his boots. Not such luck. Even more fresh manure spattered the toes and squeezed from the gap between the sole and heel. The smell of pig manure was so strong that David’s eyes began to water. “Nice to meet you all,” David said to the smiling red faces, each crowned with shiny lid of blonde hair which captured the light, turning it into haloes. Their eyes, however, twinkled with mischief.

Humph. “Smells like Samuelson emptied his storage tanks today,” Sam said. “That should make the old church smell something like the old stable, eh?” Humph, humph. Nels Samuelson ran a large hog operation just north of the church. That afternoon, he spread liquid pig manure on the field to the northwest of the church. Now with the wind from the northwest picking up, it brought with it the hoggish smell. Every time the door opened, it rushed in, as if trying to fill each corner with authentic first Christmas night smells.

“Best light the candles. Helga, grab the back pew before someone else snafus it. Hate to have to sit up front.” Humph, humph. David followed the Mikkelsons down the aisle, watched them pile into the back pew, then entered the foyer. People were beginning to arrive, stomping the snow off their boots, greeting each other as if they hadn’t seen each other for months, arguing over whether to wear their coats during service or hang them up; most decided to wear their coats and the woman made their husbands lay their coats on the pews for them to sit on.

David greeted each family as they came in. Names were thrown at him from all sides. Some David recognized from reading through the register, but others didn’t seem to fit anywhere. He tried to associate names with faces but it was an impossible task. The regulars who attended the service on Sunday morning, he sort of knew. But this was a classic C & E crowd; most would not darken the church door again until Easter, unless they had to attend a funeral, baptism, or wedding, and that only reluctantly.

Sven Olson came in covered with snow. “It’s really coming down out there. We’re going to be socked in before the night is over.” He stomped his feet, shook his jacket, and added, “I hope you’re not long winded, Pastor, or we won’t get home tonight.” At 6:50 p.m. David made his way to the sacristy. He decided to take the long way, through the basement up the back stairs and in the back door. This way he wouldn’t have to walk up the aisle and have everyone stare at him. He slid into his alb, adjusted his stole, secured his cincture, and blew on his hands. “Man, its cold in here,” he thought. Old Mikkelson was right. Through the closed door he heard the strains of O Come All Ye Faithful, his cue to enter. He turned the door knob, pulled open the door, and ran right into the Christmas Tree. He grabbed the tree to steady it, then sheepishly closed the door, and bound out the back door, leaped down the stairs, ran the length of the basement and entered the church from the back. Every head was turned to watch him enter, every mouth sported a huge grin. O Come All Ye Faithful was long over. Mrs. Severson sat beside the piano tapping her watch in annoyance. “Why didn’t I notice that tree before?” David wondered as he processed up the aisle to the sound of shuffling bulletins. “Great start!”

The service progressed fine. The readers read their texts on cue and the piano banged out the carols, in somewhat of a honky tonk tone. Outside, the wind had picked up as if its only purpose was to drown out the service inside. Snow crashed against the windows sounding like kids throwing sand against the side of a house. The congregation alternately looked at the windows and at their watches. David ran through his sermon in his mind, what could he cut out and still have a coherent sermon?

Ahem. Mrs. Serverson cleared her throat. She was about to sing. The pianist played the intro and she launched in. The hair on David’s neck sprang up. It sounded like two cat screeching through an alley fight. Olga was flat on some notes, sharp on others. She ran ahead of her accompanist, then lagged behind, hanging on to some notes like a novice water skier clinching the tow rope for dear life, bouncing off others like she was walking barefoot over a bed of hot coals. Then she cranked up the volume. The high point of the song was nearing. Olga climbed the notes like a ladder, deliberately stepping on each one, gaining strength before venturing on to the next. Finally she arrived, flat by two full tones, but that didn’t deter her one bit. She hung on to that note, stretched her neck upward and gained a tone. One to go. She thrust out her bosoms heavenward as if God would be pleased with her offerings, and picked up another half tone. Her face was red, her eyes bulged, the muscles in her necked corded. It was clear she wouldn’t crest the summit tonight. But she gave it one last valiant effort—and the church went dark. The storm outside, sensing that it was losing the battle to an old Norwegian songstress, blew down the power line.

In the dark, Olga Severson sang on to the end. She might not have reached the high E, the lights might have gone out, but nobody would ever say that Olga Severson didn’t finish what she started. No one.

The church, lit now only by two candelabras and the Advent wreath took on a true Christmas feeling. “Thank you, Mrs. Severson, for that lovely song,” David said from the pulpit. He adjusted his sermon notes this way and that, but no matter how he arranged them, he could barely make out the words.

Humph, humph. “You might need this,” whispered Sam Mikkelson, setting a candle down on the edge of the pulpit. Then he took a wooden match from his shirt pocket, struck it on the metal teeth of his fly zipper, and lit the candle. “There you are, Pastor.”

David adjusted his notes once more and began, “Dear friends in Christ.” David had the sense that something moved near his feet. “We have come here tonight to celebrate…’ Again movement. David tried to concentrate on his sermon. “We have come here tonight to celebrate … a mouse! A mouse!” David jumped up and down. “A mouse!” Stories his father had told him, stories of a cornered mouse that ran up his pant leg, rushed through his mind. He leaped back out of the pulpit, flinging his sermon notes into the air, crashing the Advent wreath to the floor.

Humph, humph. “It’s just the church mouse, Pastor. I guess when he saw that the lights were out he thought everyone had gone home. He is probably more surprised than you are." Humph, humph.

“Fire!” yelled someone. One of David’s sermon pages landed on the Advent wreath and burst into flame. The plastic holly leaves began to melt and drip onto the floor. Old Mikkelson humphed, and stomped on the sticky plastic goo and on the flaming Advent wreath; there would be new candles—and wreath next year.

The church was in an uproar. Everyone was laughing at the calamity. Outside the wind pelted snow against the windows all the harder as if trying to blast every bit of colour out of the stained glass panels. Sven Olson stuck his head out the door, turned around and announced, “A real blizzard out there, folks. Looks like we’re here for a while.”

The congregation groaned. David cleared his throat. He had to do something to save the night. “I suggest we say a prayer and conclude the service,” he announced. “Then maybe we could sing carols around the piano until the storm passes.”

“I’ll make us some coffee,” Helga Mikkelson said, grabbing Lana and Tana and heading off to the basement.

“How will you heat the water?” someone shouted amid the giggles.

“Oh, yeah. Forgot about that.” The whole congregation, including David, erupted in laughter.

So, David’s first Christmas Eve service turned into a carol sing in a dark and cold country church that smelled strongly of pig manure, on a blizzardy winter’s night. It was his all-time favourite service.