*
Outside, the cold air burned my lungs. The sky was so clear and bright—too bright for three hours after sundown. No matter how long I stayed there, I would never get used to seeing so many stars.
“You okay?” Ethan asked, but I couldn’t breathe, much less speak.
“I’ve got to tell them,” I finally choked out. “They’re so nice. They’re going to hate me. They’re going to hate you! I have to tell them. Right now. Tonight. I’ll—”
“No.” Ethan shook his head, firm in his resolve. “Tell them now and you’ll break Aunt Mary’s heart right before Christmas.”
“She won’t care about that. Her husband and daughter will be home soon and—”
But the look in Ethan’s eyes cut me off. It wasn’t shock. It was absolute sorrow.
“Gosh, Lydia. I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“They died,” he said. “About a year and a half ago. Car accident.”
I heard Aunt Mary’s words: I don’t drive much anymore.
“This is only her second Christmas without them,” Ethan finished, and I felt like someone hit me in the gut. I thought of Aunt Mary’s hugs, her empty house. Of the tree and Hulda’s handmade stocking.
“It was one of the reasons why I thought Hulda coming was such a good idea,” Ethan told me. “Aunt Mary doesn’t like to be alone, and the holidays are so hard.…”
“Yeah. Of course. I wish I’d realized. I would have—”
“No! Don’t change anything, okay? She gets enough sympathy from everybody else. It’s nice having someone who doesn’t treat her like she’s fragile. She hasn’t been this happy since the accident. If you tell her now … it’ll crush her.”
“She’s going to find out eventually, Ethan. It’s not like I can stay here. Eventually, I’m gonna have to leave.”
“We don’t want you to leave, okay?” He ran his hand through his hair again. “I don’t want you to leave.”
I didn’t realize how close we were standing or how warm his hands were on my arms. I didn’t see the way our breath mingled in the cold air. I didn’t realize I was falling until it was too late, probably because I never hit the ground. It was a fall of faith, of hope, of … if you want to be technical about it, love. Or something like it.
And then Ethan’s lips were on mine and I pressed against the warmth of his strong chest, his arms around me, holding me tight. And I wasn’t running away anymore. I was running toward. This moment. This place. This boy.
“Just wait until after Christmas, okay?” Ethan pulled away and stared into my eyes. “Everything will look different after Christmas.”
And I nodded, perfectly content to go on living with the lie.
*
On Christmas Eve, Ethan picked me up to take me to the church that sat between a wheat field and a pasture. It was tiny and white with a steeple climbing up into the sky. By the time Ethan parked the truck, the church bells were already chiming.
“Come on.” He took my hand. “We’re late.”
Together we ran laughing toward the doors, but as soon as we stepped inside I straightened and stopped. Ethan’s hand was still in mine, though, as we stood at the back of the crowded room.
“Hulda! Ethan!” Ethan’s mom whispered, motioning to where the family was saving us a pair of seats.
“Good evening, everyone!” I looked up and, for the first time, noticed Aunt Mary standing behind the pulpit, a hymnal in her hands. “Merry Christmas,” she said.
The entire congregation echoed her. “Merry Christmas!”
The room was lit entirely by candles and the white twinkle lights of a half dozen Christmas trees. Mistletoe hung on the end of every one of the old-fashioned pews. It wasn’t like walking into a church. It was like walking back in time. The people of Bethlehem had been celebrating Christmas Eve in that way for a hundred years. There was a comfort in knowing they would probably celebrate it that way for a hundred more.
“You okay?” Ethan whispered, and I nodded. At the front of the room, a pianist began to play.
“Let’s begin with hymn number 101,” Aunt Mary said as Ethan and I sat down on the end of his family’s pew.
There was a fluttering of noise as people picked up songbooks and turned to the page, but I didn’t need to see the music. I knew every word. Every note. And yet, when Aunt Mary sang “O Holy Night,” there was no way I could join in.
“The stars are brightly shining…”
Suddenly, I wasn’t in that little church in the middle of nowhere. I was in a hospital room singing for the small, frail woman on the bed. I was picking out the song on my keyboard. I was watching her eyes fill with tears as she asked me to sing it again.
“It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth…”
I was glad for the dim lights and crowded room. No one was watching me. No one noticed how my eyes began to water and my hands began to shake. And, most of all, no one looked at me and expected me to dance or sing. No one in that room cared if I ever sang again.
“Long lay the world, in sin and—” Aunt Mary’s voice cracked. The words faltered. She moved her lips, but no sound came out as her face turned white and she seemed lost, frozen.
“This was Daisy’s favorite,” she said after awhile, her voice so soft it was barely a whisper. It was like Aunt Mary was lost in a fog of memory and regret and the realization that she would never again share that hymn with her daughter. The pianist kept playing, but no one sang. No one moved.
Ethan’s mother wiped her eyes, and I felt the overwhelming wave of emotion that was rushing through the room. It was about to overtake us. And when the pianist reached the chorus, I felt it overtake me.
It was like when I offered Hulda my ticket; I didn’t make the decision to stand. I didn’t will myself to sing. But before I knew it, I was standing, walking to the front of the room.
“Fall on your knees…” The words came pouring out of me, my voice filling the tiny church as I stared into Aunt Mary’s eyes and realized she was no longer crying. She held out her hand, and I took it and sang louder.
“Oh hear the angel voices!” I sang like I hadn’t sung in years.
And I kept singing. I sang just for the joy of it. For the moment and the music and for me. I sang for Aunt Mary and Daisy and for all the people who couldn’t sing anymore. I sang because not singing would never bring them back but singing might make us all remember.
I sang because that is what I do when I am happy and when I’m sad. I sang because it is who I am when I am being the best possible version of me. I sang because I wasn’t alone as I held Aunt Mary’s hand.
I sang because it was Christmas.