I am hurting tonight, and it is two very different kinds of pain I’m feeling.
First of all, I’m sitting here with a throbbing right ankle and a scraped left knee, plus various aches and pains, thanks to a fall I took earlier this evening that could have been worse. I was a little bit late getting dressed for tonight’s Carthage Christmas Festival performance, and as I hurried down the stairs I didn’t bother to turn on any lights. I was fine until I got to the very bottom and suddenly found myself tripping over something and hurtling into the air and on to the hardwood floor of the foyer. The culprit (aside from my own carelessness) was that our dog gate was set up at the bottom of the stairs – not where it usually is – and in the darkness, I hadn’t known it was there. It was a stunning shock, but I’m pretty sure that because I had no idea the fall was coming, I had no chance to brace for impact and probably avoided serious injury because of that. But it was a shock, and my wife’s scream from the other room when she heard the crash got my heart pounding even harder. But I’m okay. A little banged up. But okay. And grateful that it wasn’t much worse.
The other hurt is so much deeper, and the shock of my painful tumble at the bottom of the stairs was absolutely nothing compared to the shocking phone call we received last night just before 10:00. Kathy answered the phone, and I knew almost immediately that it was very bad news about someone important to us, but for what seemed like an eternity, I had no idea who. Finally, Kathy looked up at me and mouthed “It’s Mark” – and for a few moments I was processing the horrible reality that something had happened to my brother-in-law. But then it became clear that in fact Kathy was talking to Mark, not about Mark -and only when she had hung up did I learn the awful news that our friend Sam Waller and suffered a heart attack earlier that evening, and was gone, just like that. And ever since, everyone who knew Sam and loved him (to know the guy was to love him) are trying to make sense of something so completely senseless.
Wow. Just now, as I began this new paragraph, I typed the words “Sam is” – realized what I’d done – deleted them – typed “Sam was” – deleted them – and now I don’t know what to say. That matter of going from “is” to “was” is more than I can take in. Another day I will write more about Sam and what made him so special.
What I want to talk about here is what I experienced in the closing minutes of tonight’s Christmas Festival performance. My involvement this year is confined to playing piano for one song of the Carthage Choir, and in wake of Sam’s tragic death, I was fully expecting to keep my emotional investment in the concert to a minimum…. to hunker down in my office and just pop up to the chapel in time to accompany Mark Petering’s “Christ Child” – and then be on my way home. My bumps and bruises made me even more inclined to keep my distance from the proceedings. But much to my surprise, I found myself drawn in by the sounds of the concert wafting down the downstairs hallway. It turns out that a live feed of the concert (both audio and video) was beamed down to the choir room, and I found myself watching and listening to almost all of the concert. I was an audience of one since no one else was in the choir room but me, and song after song spoke so powerfully to me. . . not only the songs themselves, but just in knowing that despite all that had turned our life upside down as of late, there are things which goes on…. and hope continues to be born even in the midst of our sorrow and hurt. What is more important in the Bethlehem story than that?
But the most powerful and moving moment came right after the Carthage Choir had finished their set, and the choir and congregation joined together in “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!” The sound of that joyous singing was riveting, and I found myself unable to slip away as I had planned. And when everyone got to the line “Light and Life to all He brings” I felt like I was suddenly in the midst of angels. We weren’t even yet to Silent Night and the sublime Service of Light and I already had a lump in my throat the size of a basketball.
Why? That hymn had transported me back to all of the cold December nights Kathy and I have spent in recent years Christmas caroling with Polly and Mark, Steve and Carri, Brian . . . and especially Paula and Sam, who in so many ways were the heart and soul of it. And what made those outings especially moving was all of the times when we were entering the home of someone housebound and terminally ill, trying to bring them a word of comfort and joy. The first year we caroled, we sang to Paula’s uncle for what turned out to be his last Christmas…. and ever since, we have tried to make sure that at least one of our stops each year was to such a household, in special need of some Christmas cheer. There is something really incredible and revelatory about singing the beloved Christmas carols when you’re standing in the living room of someone whose life is almost over, looking at you with such gratitude. And it’s not like we were singing spectacularly well or doing anything particularly fancy or impressive- but simply that we were there. I will never forget those moments as long as I live. And when I think of my friend Sam, I will think first of those nights caroling with him… sometimes in bitterly cold weather…. yet feeling incredibly warm…. not even realizing how much we were being blessed even as we tried to be a blessing for others. And the next time we carol…. and I trust that there will be another time, because the last thing Sam would want is for this tradition he loved so much to die away…. I know that burning within all of us will be our memories of Sam’s open-hearted kindness and compassion for others, fueled and fired by the Light and Life within him which made him the amazing man he was. . . the amazing, inspiring man that we already miss so much.
pictured at the top: Our group caroling in the living room of Paula’s parents. Right in the center, wearing a beautiful sweater, is Sam – and Paula is standing right next to him. Paula’s father, Charles, is seated in the corner. What precious memories this photograph evokes!
pictured below: More images from those caroling nights. One of them shows retired Carthage professor Dr. Richard Sjoerdsma happily greeting us in his doorway.
