Silent Night

 There are two iconic things that ring in the Christmas season for me: The Nutcracker and Handel's Messiah.

In elementary school, we had a field trip to Atlanta to see the Nutcracker. The beautiful ballerinas floated on air. The music completely embodied the story of it, a trip to a land come to life with toy soldiers, dancers, huge wild rats and fairy dust. When I got home, I began to pretend I was a ballerina...my gangly, tall self flying across the kitchen while I washed the supper dishes. I imagined myself with my own little girl and the ballet classes to come.  Many years later, I married and had three beefy boys, and then a tall but very graceful toddler girl. From the time she could walk, she was dancing about the house. When she turned three and begged to go, we put her into a ballet school in a fanciful little house with large windows and wooden floor in the center of Vinings. She had the sweetest teacher, a lithe and dreamy slip of a girl. Liz danced for nine or so years, becoming proficient and skilled, the little primadonna of her school. When her body began to change, during adolescence, she began to feel conspicuous wearing tights and dancing across stages in front of people. Thankfully, she survived that and navigated into adulthood and retained her love of music and dance. She and I have had many a dance party in the kitchens of our homes, and now she enjoys ramping up the music and cavorting with her three children in her own house.  

When I saw that Ballet Magnificat was coming to Carrollton this season, I just had to get tickets for her and her 3-year-old daughter. We had seen this same troupe when Liz was a wee thing. When the curtains opened and the music started, tears sprung to her eyes. We both cried as we thought of those special years and the magic of a ballerina at Christmastime. Her daughter, London, was enraptured. 

They say that Tchaikovsky was less-than-happy about The Nutcracker. He felt it uninspiring and dull. His sister died midway through his composition, and he never lived to see the full impact of his work. Imagine what he would now think, where it is one of the quintessential parts of the Christmas season, selling out audiences wherever it is performed. It also has been the introduction of many a child to the beginnings of a ballet career. I used to take my children every year, much to the chagrin of our boys. The older they got, the more they grumbled. I had to get them a bit of culture some way, and I have to believe that somewhere in there they saw the magic. 

I love all kinds of music, from all kinds of musicians -- from hymns to bluegrass, classical to rock, folk to pop, you name it. But my favorite compilation of work is Handel's Messiah. Nothing short of brilliant, it is appropriate at any time of year though we usually hear it at Christmas and Easter. The words are straight from scripture, mostly the Old Testament, and the music is straight from heaven. He wrote it in 24 days in August of 1741. I have heard that he holed up in his room and wrote feverishly, completely in the grip of inspiration. Everyone loves the "Hallelujah" chorus, but my very favorite part is the long and drawn-out "Worthy is the Lamb and the Amen" at the end. It is simply gorgeous, goose-bump inducing and glorious.  When a chorus bursts out with the "Worthy" portion, I have to stop what I'm doing and contemplate the glory of all that is. 

The holiday season gets packed to the gills with much running about and oft-unnecessary mayhem. It is also often the hardest of times for many people, for many reasons: the loss of loved ones, the pain of regret, the feelings of "not enough," the reminiscence of things lost or undone. May we all look around and minister kindness to those in our paths, call up an old friend or neglected family member, pick up the slack where it's needed, and show gratefulness for the ones who work hard to make our world better. Or the ones that don't -- the Grinches or the downtrodden along the way who might need a little hope to go on another day. I'm preachin' to myself here; it's sometimes hard to think of others or to stop what I'm doing to look around. Humble was the manger that brought hope to the world...