Down a long road, far from the edge of town and the last whispers of civilization, sat a tiny country church.  A humble tiny white building flocked with a few withering shrubs and a lone, but proud, oak tree, it would have been easy to forget.  Except at Christmas.

For at Christmas, the humble church glowed with cheer.  The walls were scrubbed, the roof and shrubs wrapped in twinkling lights and the stained glass windows beamed with candlelight.  The pews were draped with evergreen and fat velvet red bows, and a fat glittering Christmas tree stood prominently in the lobby, draped with handmade ornaments from the youngest members’ hands.

Everyone in the town said the prettiest place at Christmas was the little church.  But for Lenora, the church was not just beautiful for the lights and the candles and the twinkling tree.

For Lenora, the true beauty was in the Christmas song.

She had first heard it when she was five, after she had crept away from her Sunday school class.  Tired of making construction paper angels raining silver glitter, she had heard the faint strains of a hymn.  Humming the melody under her breath, she scurried past the ushers stationed outside the chapel doors, past the minister’s offices and down to the music room, where a tiny organ sat.

And there, outside the door, she heard a clear, pure voice singing, “Fall on your knees, oh hear the angel voices, oh night divine, oh night divine.”

The words that she had heard so many times at Christmas stirred her tiny heart, falling onto her ears for the first time.  Hope and joy bloomed, bursting from her twinkling eyes.  Transfixed, she clutched the door, unable to stop drinking in the singer’s words.

And as the final note faded, she burst inside, clapping her hands wildly.  “That was so pretty!  I loved it!”

But there was no one inside.  Furrowing her brow, she glanced around.  “Hello?  Hello?  Where did you go?”

The room was silent, the organ and piano standing stoically.  She brushed her fingers over the keys, noting they were still warm.  Someone had been here, playing and singing.  But where had they gone?  The room only had one door and one large window, nailed shut.

“Please,” she called, her fingers stroking the warm keys.  “I just want to listen to you sing.  It’s so beautiful.  Don’t be scared.”

All she heard was the echo of her own words, bouncing around the tiny room.  With a sigh, she turned and slipped out, the warmth from the song seeping from her rosy cheeks through her cold toes.  As she dragged her feet down the hallway, she heard a single note pierce the air.  She froze, holding her breath.

“What child is this who lay to rest on Mary’s lap sleeping, who angels bring anthems sweet while shepherds watch are keeping…”  The clear voice rose and fell, each stanza more joyful than the next.  Biting her lip to keep from bursting with giddiness, Lenora stood, the words wrapping around her like a warm blanket.  Finally, when she couldn’t stand it any longer, she rushed back into the room, pounding her hands together.  “Bravo!  Bravo!”

But once again, the room was empty, the final note from the organ still hanging in the silent air.

After that, Lenora quit trying to find the singer.  Instead, she would wait every year until Christmas came, after the Thanksgiving turkeys made with hand prints had been put away and the chains of red and green construction paper and glittering Popsicle snowflakes hung for proud parents to examine.  Then, while her classmates made wax candles and construction paper stained glass windows on tissue paper, she snuck down to the music room.  There, she would sit for hours, listening to the lone voice sing, the tiny organ straining with pride as hymn after hymn filled the quiet hall.  As long as Lenora stayed away from the door, the voice would sing.  But as soon as her curiosity began to over take her and her toes crept closer and closer to the light spilling out from the door frame, the music would stop, the voice vanishing.

As she listened, Lenora liked to imagine who might be singing.  Perhaps it was one of the children from the younger Sunday school classes, or a shy janitor.  Maybe it was a member of the choir, or a mother looking for a reprieve from cooking and looking after children.  Maybe it was even a minister, though why he wasn’t preaching Lenora couldn’t figure out.

And although she wanted to so desperately, Lenora never told another soul about the mysterious voice.  It would have been a betrayal, a crime to reveal such a beautiful voice, as much as she wanted to share it with her family and Sunday school friends.

So for the next six years, Lenora contented herself with simply listening, the beautiful hymns washing over her and stirring her soul like no hymn in the chapel ever had.  Even when Jessica Lange sang, the best singer in the congregation, it did nothing for Lenora compared to that one sweet voice, singing for an audience of one.

Finally, after several Sundays of sneaking down to the music room, it was time for the Christmas Eve service, Lenora’s favorite time of the year.  As her family poured into the church, squabbling and shedding mittens and coats, Lenora heard a faint melody.  Her heart racing, she turned to her mother.

“Mom, I’ve got to go grab something from the Sunday school room.  I’ll meet you in a bit.”

“Ok,” her mother replied automatically, desperately trying to gather Lenora’s siblings and flying pairs of mittens.  As her parents tried to wrangle their other children, Lenora slipped down the hall, passing the minister’s offices and chapel.  Her feet flew down the hall as the voice grew louder, the words stronger and more clear.

“Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plains, and the mountains in reply, echoing their joyous strains…”

This time, Lenora couldn’t help it.  She burst through the door, the words pouring from her lips.  “Please, please don’t run!  I just had to tell you…”  She stood, gaping as her racing thoughts came to a halt, her words rushing back down her throat never to be spoken.

For the singer, the mysterious voice, was not the church’s grandest member.  It was not one of the staff, one of the children or even one of choir.

The voice that had enchanted her for six Christmases came from the church’s poorest and tiniest member.  A tiny mouse turned toward her on the organ keys, his wide black eyes glistening in the pale candlelight.  His chest rose and fell quickly, his brown tail curling around like a child reaching for its security blanket.

And without a word, Lenora sat down at the organ and placed her fingers on the keys.  Locking her eyes with the mouse, she pressed down her fingers and sang,  “Shepards, why this joyous jubilee?  Why your joyous strains prolong?  Gloria…”

The mouse joined in, and while Lenora’s family sang along in the chapel, their voices rising and falling with the flickering candlelight beaming through the stained glass windows, Lenora and the mouse sang their own Christmas carols.

And had they been lucky enough to listen, anyone in town would have agreed–the tiny humble church had the best, tiniest, singer around.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a fun Christmas post tomorrow and a new Christmas ballerina Wednesday!

More