On The Old Church Steps

Not long since he was a child
yet still pretending to be an adult
he wanders the streets
learning to walk the walk,
and how to flash a blade 
with a flick of the wrist;
the things he thinks are important
to get him where he says he wants to be.

He shakes his head at his grandmother
sneers when anyone is looking,
and calls her "the old Lady",
but he always takes one last glance 
before he leaves her,
and in the back of his mind he wonders
if all the praying she does is worth it
to get him where she wants him to be.

He swaggers through the dark streets,
his head held high in false bravado,
high fives to those he calls his friends
and a jeer for the ones he doesn’t, 
walking like the big cats who have no fear
while their prey scatter in their wake,
yet his ears are always tuned,
on guard for the slightest sound.

And this is when he hears it. 
Soft, and dreamy, in the distance.
His eyes dart in the dark,
he sets his course as it lures him in.
It takes him to the steps of an old church
and he stands at the foot of the stone staircase.
The moon seems to glow like a spotlight
but the building stands in darkness.

Silent Night, Holy Night
All is calm, all is bright
round yon virgin, Mother and child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace.

As he stands, staring up the shadowed steps
shifting his feet, a little uncomfortably,
an old man appears at his side
and he gives the man an indifferent glance.
"A shame it’s in such disrepair." the man says
and the boy’s eyes narrow, somewhat annoyed.
"Who cares. I want to know where the choir's singing?"
The man looks at him and shakes his head.

"There is no choir, boy." he says.
“Not a sound but the whistling winds.”
The boy straightens his back defiantly,
but the man moves on unnoticed. 
The boy still listens, mesmerized.
He doesn’t notice the stone walls are crumbling
or that the stained glass windows are boarded over,
he sees only a beauty he has never known.

As a warm glow fills his chest,
he drops to his knees on the steps.
The most beautiful sound he has ever heard
rings clear and crisp through the winter air.
“Stupid old man.” he grumbles under his breath
“Can’t you hear the voices singing?”
But when he turns his head, he is alone
and he jumps at the sudden fright of it.

Hugging himself close against the wintry chill,
he looks around nervously in the dark
suddenly all too aware of being alone.
Yet the voices keep on singing clear
seeming to permeate the church’s stone walls
as if there was no boundary between him and them,
and as he clutches at his jacket
he turns his face back towards the sound.

Silent Night, Holy Night
Shepherds quake at the sight
glories stream from heaven afar
heavenly hosts sing Hallelujah
Christ the Saviour is born
Christ the Saviour is born.

“The singing is beautiful isn’t it?”  says a calm voice
so close at his side it makes him jump, 
but he reacts with a joy that surprises even himself.
“Ha! I told the old man there was a choir!”
But when he looks his new companion in the eye
a shiver runs down his spine,
and his sense of superiority flees 
at the peace and caring on this man’s face.

“Oh, there is no choir.” the man assures him
turning his radiant face towards the old church
which seems to have slipped out of the shadows,
the one remaining stained glass window glowing proud.
“But they say that every year, on Christmas Eve,
a host of angels gather at this very spot
and lift their glorious voices to the heavens
in the most wondrous chorus man has ever heard.”

Hovering on the edge of disbelief,
the boy casts a sideways glance,
but before he has a chance to speak,
the man answers his unspoken question.
“No,  not everyone can hear them,
only those with the purest of hearts.”
and as the boy grunts under his breath, 
he adds, “and those who need it most.”

“And how do you know all of this?” 
the boy asks, shifting nervously
while his companion stands fearless at his side.
The man’s face seems to glow
as he turns a smile towards him,
and as the choir rings out even louder
he rests a hand on the young boy's shoulder
and quietly asks “You can hear them, can’t you?”

Silent Night, Holy Night
Son of God, love’s pure light
radiant beams from thy holy face
with the dawn of redeeming grace
Jesus, Lord at thy birth,
Jesus, Lord at thy birth.

They found him slumped on the steps 
in the wee hours of the morning.
His grandmother sits praying at his bedside
where he lays fighting for his life in the hospital,
from a knife wound that just missed his heart.
Slowly his grip tightens on her fingers.
“I heard the choir, Grandma.” he whispers,
“I heard the choir, and I saw the old man.”

“Hush, baby.” She says, “Get some rest.” 
and she brushes the back of his hand.
She lifts her face upward, and closes her eyes,
one hand on her heart as she whispers,
“Thank you Lord, for not taking him from me.”
for she knows who really stood at his side
on the steps of that old church 
as the angel choir heralded a miracle that night.



italics are the words of Joseph Mohr & John Freeman Young, 1863
famous Christmas carol, (Stille Nacht) Silent Night






december 2002

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