Brian Esposito, Psy.D.

The Washington NJ United Methodist church had a capacity to reach several hundred souls a week, though most weeks in the 1990s the pastor would give his sermon to only a few score of regular attendees. My grandmother would not come to church often, mostly due to the physical effort it would cost, which sometimes made me wonder if she knew God or was even interested in her spiritual life. But for the Christmas Eve candlelight service, which by the way would pull in several hundred attendees in my sleepy rural town, my grandmother would join all of us to celebrate the coming Christ.

When the time came in the service to form the large candlelit circle, and my brothers and I could revel in the fact that we got to hold a candle (play with fire in church), we all stood tightly shoulder to shoulder and turned to the printed leaflets of the hymns that had been passed out in the beginning of the service. Now, in case you didn't know, the Methodists sing every line of each hymn. No exceptions! Well, even though the effect of the candlelight service is emotionally stirring and aesthetically seasonal, this sole source of light does not help much when reading the third verse of O Little Town of Bethlehem. While all of the candles dimly lit the room, all heads were buried down in the leaflet hymnal to keep pace with the church organist. All heads but one.

Verse after verse my grandmother sang out, swaying left to right, articulating each line of song, with no pamphlet to be seen. How I had underestimated her relationship with God! How I had misunderstood her quiet inattendance for indifference! Though she has been gone for many years now, that Christmas memory stays with me still today. And now, as Christmas approaches again, I think of her as she was, and look towards the day she and I can sing together again.