One of the traditions I have missed out on the last couple years not being in Seattle is going Christmas caroling with a group from my parents church. As much as I love the songs, part of the motivation for going when I was a kid was the goodies we’d always have afterward. Hot cider, homemade doughnuts, Christmas cookies, you get the idea. My mom asked this year if I wanted to go or just stay home. Since I haven’t been able to go the last couple years I figured it would be fun. Besides, it would be good to get out of the house and spread a little kitschy holiday cheer.

Pulling into the church parking lot with my mom there were three cars. Ours, my dad’s, and a pickup. No big deal we figured, maybe people were just running a little late. So we go inside to find the caroling group–usually around 15-20–is just five for this year. Maybe it was the weather, maybe people were just busy, but starting a night of caroling with a choir of five doesn’t usually bode well. Never the less, my dad had told at least a few people we would be coming by so we couldn’t just call it off all together.

Our little group of five seemed pretty pitiful, and when there was no one home at the first stop and the second had the wrong people home, I was really starting to question whether I should have just stayed home. I texted my brother joking that he had made the wise choice staying at home to prep the Christmas cookies and punch. I even started writing this post in my head, thinking about how I would have this great awkward Christmas story to tell. But then a funny thing happened. The woman at our third stop was home and we started singing.

No one would ever mistake us for a concert choir, nor was our little show very long. But as we sang I started to feel better about what we were doing. It’s hard to be a pessimist while singing Jingle Bells, right? I figured at this point it might not be the most fun way to spend an evening but at least it wouldn’t be completely miserable. But it was at the next home, and the one after that, and the one after that the real importance of what we were doing became clear to me.

My dad picks the routes before leaving. Generally the houses we stop at are a mix of widows, families my dad has done funerals for, or just people from the church who have a hard time getting out of the house. What struck me was how happy these people were to see us. But it wasn’t the songs we chose or how long we spent singing, it was our mere presence that was important. By showing up at their doors we were telling them they are known. They are not alone.

I spent a lot of time wallowing over the break about going to the Rosie Thomas Christmas concert by myself. I wanted so badly for someone to go with me and share the experience. But while I missed that companionship for just one night, there are people who experience that feeling every single day of their life. The widowed spouse spending their first Christmas without their partner. The orphan who doesn’t know the love of their parents. Those who might be thousands of miles from any other family or friends. The homeless who sit outside in the rain while I sip hot cider. For one brief moment, these people felt known. We came to them, sang for them, hugged them and wished them merry Christmas. And it cost us nothing.

I think part of everyone’s story is the quest to be known. What is love other than a deep intimate knowledge of that which is worthy? We seek to be loved by God; by husbands and wives; by friends and family. We want these people to know us and in that knowing we are loved and accepted. The sad thing is the lack of being known can be crushing. I complain about not going out every night with friends, but if I locked myself in my room and didn’t come out, they would notice. My parents, my friends, someone would call and say they missed me at church, they would look for me online to chat or knock on my door. Can you imagine living a life where if you locked yourself away, no one came looking for you? The opposite of being known and loved is not being rejected or hated–no for those things you must at least be acknowledged. The opposite of being known is being insignificant. I can’t imagine living a life where if I disappeared no one would come looking. When we knocked on those doors and sang our songs, we were saying to these people, “You are significant, you are worthy of being loved.” Maybe our ragtag little group of carolers wasn’t the most impressive choir ever assembled. But I think–I hope–for the people whose doorsteps we showed up on we helped them to feel known.

Filed under: life by Jonathan