A Christmas Blessing
by Ferida Wolff
The weeks before Christmas each year is a time for concerts at my father’s assisted living residence. Students from a local high school don their gowns and tuxedos and sing the carols they have been practicing. Young musicians from a local music studio present their newly learned skills. Members of a string band strum their banjos and strut their stuff.
Today a pop band composed of older musicians is scheduled to play a program of Christmas favorites. The concerts tend to be cheerful and I look forward to sharing them with my father.
The chairs are set up in the lobby as I enter the building. A Christmas tree is in the corner decorated with ornaments, tinsel and lights. Paper snowflakes hang from the ceiling. Everything says holiday.
I go upstairs to get my father and bring him downstairs for the concert. He is reluctant to go but he rarely wants to participate in any of the programs.
“Come on, Dad,” I say. “It will be fun.”
He protests a bit more but finally shrugs and allows me to help him into his wheelchair and wheel him down. The lobby, empty when I came in, is now almost full. I maneuver his wheelchair into one of the few spaces left and pull up a folding chair to sit next to him. I look around and see that despite the decorations and festive intentions, not everyone is in the holiday mood. Some of the residents are eager and some are curious, but from the resignation on many faces I guess that Dad is not the only one who needed encouragement to attend. I hope the music will lift everyone’s spirits.
As soon as the band starts playing, however, I don’t think that is going to happen. It is obvious that the musicians have seen better days. They are squeaking their way through one song after another. The strings sound scratchy as if they need to be oiled. The players don’t seem to be in step with each other and have to start over several times. They keep changing keys in the middle of their songs more like they are tuning up rather than performing. I wonder if they have ever played together before.
The audience claps politely at the end of each number but after the first erratic song, no one is really paying attention. The staff members walk back and forth through the room on their way to fulfill their duties, as if nothing is going on. The residents are chatting among themselves, seemingly unaware of the efforts of the performers. Even though I feel sorry for the reception the band is getting, I try to think of something else to prevent my teeth from gritting at each awkward note.
At one point Dad leans over and says, “Let’s go.”
Usually I try to persuade him to stay until the end of a program but this time I don’t blame him for wanting to leave. It is painful to listen to the performers. I wait for the song to be over and am about to get up and take him back to his apartment when the bandleader announces their final number — Silent Night.
“It’s the last song, Dad,” I whisper, politeness winning out. “We’ll go as soon as it is over.”
The musicians begin playing and a sweet, haunting sound suddenly comes from the band. The instruments have stopped squeaking, the musicians are in sync with each other, and peace fills the room. The song is suspended in the air, shining like the crystal ornaments on the Christmas tree. A hush settles on the residents. People stop chattering and fussing. Everyone is attentive now.
One woman, who has dementia and cannot remember the simplest things, starts singing softly. She remembers all the words to the song.
“Wow,” I think as I watch her. She has a beatific expression on her face and for a moment I see who she really is.
My father, who never sings, is quietly singing, too. I try not to gape at him.
Slowly, tentatively, one resident after another joins in until the room vibrates with voices. A man who had been a singer in a church choir adds his resonant baritone to the mix anchoring the impromptu chorus. The band plays the last notes of the song and the residents ask the musicians to play it again. This time a reverent hush envelops the room. When the band finishes, there is a brief silence as if no one wants the moment to end. Then, there is a communal sigh. The residents applaud heartily.
The air in the building has changed. We are all in the embrace of something we don’t understand but we know is holy. The atmosphere feels warm and happy. Everyone is smiling, now, and wishing each other a Merry Christmas. Dad and I hum our way onto the elevator.
As I wheel my father down the hall to his apartment, he turns to me and says, “That was nice.”
“Yes it was,” I agree. “Yes, it was.”
On the way home I wonder what had happened. I don’t try too hard to analyze it, though. I am just grateful that my father and I were part of what I have come to think of as a Christmas blessing.
