It promised to be a long night. The program listed twelve acts – one for each day of Christmas. Parents shifted uncomfortably on hard chairs while rows of nervous children muddled through
Jingle Bell Rock and
We Wish You a Merry Christmas. I was just there to take notes and a few photos for the small local daily. The junior high school holiday concert was just the kind of feel-good page filler that people liked this time of year.
All the performing groups had cutesy names like The Bronco Beats; most were made up of tween girls shuffling through tunes like
Run Rudolph Run, counting the time with quivering lips. A couple of solo acts broke up the program, sharp voiced youngsters straining to reach both high and low notes. You could tell which parents had a performer on stage; they sat up straight and clapped enthusiastically, then slipped back into their seats at the end of the number, eyes as dull as the grey gymnasium walls.
My attention wandered as the Bronco Beginning Band sounded their first clumsy notes. There was no way of knowing the song they were attempting to play. They were all so focused and serious while creating their discordant music. It was both comical and tragic.
The windows high above the gymnasium floor were dark. Snow had gathered in the corners of the glass, as if painted there to match the paper snowflakes hanging from the rafters. There wasn’t much else in the way of decoration, but I was beginning to think that the whole holiday concert was a last minute project, thrown together to please the parents and justify a music budget. I sincerely hoped that the School Board was more impressed than the audience.
The band finally ended with a cymbal crash and an errant blast from a flatulent flute. I sighed heavily and checked the program again. Two more performances before I could call it a night and start putting the event on paper. I’d need lots of tinsel and twinkle lights to dress up this article. And maybe a stiff drink.
A choir filed onto the stage. Silent and stony faced, they took their places. They looked slightly older than the other performers, but still young, perhaps about fifteen or sixteen. The dove grey robes they wore looked far too expensive for the school’s meager budget. I suddenly realized that, for the first time that night, I was sitting completely at attention, waiting. I wasn’t the only one. Every person in the room was sitting upright, eyes on the stage. I also noticed that the room was perfectly quiet; no chairs scraping the floor, no cell phones ringing, not even a murmur or whisper from the audience.
The choir stood perfectly still, holding the silence until it hummed like a violin string pulled taut. The choir director stepped out front and held his hands high. He brought them down with a flourish and the choir began
Carol of the Bells.
They sang like angels.
Twenty voices – pure, golden voices – filled that room to the very corners. Every eye was upon them. Part way through the song a strange groaning sound pulled my attention from the stage. Snowflakes flew, pressing against the glass to see for themselves the stone faced teens with the heavenly voices until the windows were completely white. Outside, the wind howled, circling and rising. Inside, the song reached its crescendo, creating an energy to compete with the wailing wind.
The gymnasium lights flickered, and though one or two people let their eyes stray upward, most sat rapt, staring straight ahead at the choir.
Before the carol could ease off into its quiet ending, the director swooped an arm outward and the choir ran seamlessly into O Holy Night. There was no gentle interlude to bridge the songs, just the tremendous power of those voices. It was both marvelous and terrifying.
Fall, fall on your knees. Fall on your knees.
The voices rose and seemed to multiply. The wind outside responded, rattling the windows above. Again the lights flickered, more insistently this time. Panicked. There was a gasp, or perhaps a sob, from somewhere behind me.
Oh hear the angel voices.
The lights went out. The choir stopped, not in dribs and drabs, a few stopping, then a few more, slowing dying off. It was instantaneous. They just stopped. There was a loud whooshing sound, and a flapping, like someone had opened the door and the wind swept in, finally able to join in the song. It was pitch black, and I sensed rather than saw the movement around me. There was one nervous scream, and then complete silence.
I started to slowly pick my way toward the door. It was difficult in the darkness, trapped within a maze of people and chairs. I wondered why the emergency generator hadn’t kicked in. I was aware of the nervous energy around me, of people afraid to move, afraid to speak.
Then, as suddenly as they went out, the lights came back on. I looked around, surprised at how little distance I’d covered. The choir was gone from the stage. Somehow, they had found their way in the darkness.
The people around me were blinking, blinded by the sudden light. Nervous laughter rippled through the room. A paper snowflake fell from the rafters and fluttered to the floor. Then another. The woman beside me looked up, and then the screams started.
Another house visiting tradition is the visitation of the wren. The Wren was traditionally done on Boxing Day. Visitors would take a small effigy of a bird and recite this poem: 
