The drive to the Cumberland Plateau was dotted with immense fields. Punctuated by winter colors, the fields possess land that is filled with a pinwheel of fall color and stained by the undertone of winter browns seeping in. Lazy livestock fattening up for the cold moved slowly from pasture to pasture as farm equipment idles nearby. We don't roll down our windows very often this time of year, but when my wife decided to do so we were blanketed by the musk of weathered hay bales.
"Do you know where my cell phone is?" she asked.
"We are in a Subaru. How can you lose your phone in a Subaru? This car is the size of a kayak and there are no hiding places here. I swear, in the 15 years we've had cell phones, I've spent a full 37 hours looking for yours."
"That's just not true," she said. "You've spent at least 40 or 50 hours looking for my phone. Don't sell yourself short. And you should be thankful I'm rarely on it, anyway. Where's yours? I'll use it to call mine ..." A moment later a tell-tale buzz from between the seats answered her question.
The blur of the country landscape whizzed by, and I kept noticing that one landmark again and again that marks all rural routes: a forgotten barn. Roofs fallen in, gray boards pulled from the walls, grass and trees growing through every open spot and vines pulling at the rest of what's left standing, pulling back into the earth where its initial existence was scratched years before. Time and again those ancient structures appeared as we moved through north Alabama on the way to south Tennessee. My wife and I played a game of guessing the age of each broken barn.
We were on our way to see our college kids and participate in an Advent service on their campus. The service, Lessons and Carols, is legendary in the South as it blends high church ceremonies with the beauty of a country background. Our path through Alabama took us past dozens of whitewashed, box-like churches with nothing illustrative about them except the names. We talked about the contrast of high church ceremonies in a land that embraces the notion of God as a co-worker, a member of the family, a trusted friend and companion. The vaulting cathedral we would visit was the direct opposite of the small, personal aspects of the four-square churches in the fields.
My wife and I constantly count our blessings in that we are able to send our kids to college. Arriving on campus, we breathed a sigh of pride that they are seizing opportunities and moving forward in the parade of life. Dropping our bags at the Best Western, we met our kids and hiked trails, ate burgers at Shenanigan's, and dissected a discussion on how semester classes were going. As the Advent service approached, we shimmied out of our hiking gear and put on what passes for finery in our family.
The full moon's light was warm as it reflected off early winter trees and the cold stone of hundred-year-old campus buildings. Candles danced as people found their seats and the aroma of evergreen decorations mixed with the sound of heels clacking on the terrazzo floor. I had an aisle seat with a good view of the altar in front and my family to my left. I closed my eyes to breathe in the visual, to make it last like purposeful phosphenes shimmying in the darkness. A hush came over the gathered crowd as voices echoed throughout the cavernous church. The lights dimmed and there were only the candles, still moving, still alive with their flames moving with every breath.
The choir began its hymn in the vestibule and it was slightly muted by distance and acoustics. It was the sound one might hear in the moments right before life expires as distant angels announce the presence of the Almighty on the way. The procession started and the hymn grew as the choir entered the nave, robes swaying as they walked the candlelit path. As the choir passed my right shoulder, I could distinctly make out each individual voice. Male voices, female voices, tenors, basses, and the well-trained versus the earnest amateur. The individual voices were good, but once they gathered in the chancel and their singular voices were made strong by the bond of unity, I felt my eyes begin to fill.
The choir sang hymns and carols between readings from the Old Testament and the Gospel. Always there was darkness punctuated by light. The choir director waved his hands to guide the voices and the reaction that poured forth was pure honey and strength. It was powerful.
We walked out of that beautiful church and once again breathed in the beauty of the full moon rising behind the bell tower enveloping the wooded acres around the campus in a bath of pale light. The next day, we drove home and were mostly silent through those fading fields and slouching barns. Christmas began for us with that service.
As we sped past the simple one-room churches on the route through north Alabama, the reflection of a cloudless sky marched across the windshield. I smiled as my wife's phone buzzed and she opened several bags and pockets looking for it.
We were home less than 48 hours after beginning our trip, but the moment was important. We appreciated the deeply ingrained meaning of the ceremony. But, we allowed ourselves to be aware of the subtle progression of thought, as well. The dilapidated barns had fallen to the wear of time. The full moon had come out of darkness and illuminated a wondrous path. The individual voices were made stronger once they came together as a whole.
And the message of Christmas reverberated.
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Steve Straessle is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org.
Editorial on 12/18/2017