here we go a wassailing

A few days ago, we completed our 7th annual Christmas caroling event. We had a quick runthrough with my mum on the piano at the house, with instructions to "sing the first and last verse of every carol," then out into the neighborhood we tromped. We sang in daylight hours this year to avoid the hazards of "the witching hour" (having young children out past their bedtime). We looked a bit peculiar carring lit candles in broad daylight, but it added to the ambiance. Note to self, skipping verses might lead to strangely construed messages; singing "we wont go until we get some" without the figgy-pudding context is a little embarassing. Anyhow, we returned home for some lentil soup and cider, and to string popcorn by the fire.

As the years have gone by, our caroling has evolved. The first year we did it, there was just three of us; my husband on guitar, my brother on the african drum, and me on the flute. That is the first and only year where traditional carols took on a calypso feel. It was a little weird- sounding, and despite parading up and down our entire street, we had only a few who were willing to open the door to us, and several doors slammed in our faces.
For some reason, the second year we tried again. This time, we caroled with my whole family, my dad leading the way. Little Emmanuel was just a few days old. We bundled him up, and he came too. That year, we were even invited into our neighbors' homes for hot drinks and to use their piano for accompaniment. It was a robust four-part harmony that year. Also that year, we happened to stop by two homes where grief was deep. One home, a mother had died. Another home, a miscarriage had taken place. Both neighbors were visibly moved by our presence, and the words of hope. One neighbor reminds me to this day how much that few minutes of caroling by her door step meant.
Another year, we happened to sing for a family who had recently moved from the self-described "dallas ghetto" (inner-city) to our neighborhood in far north dallas. "We're really in the 'burbs now!" he announced to his wife with wide-eyed surprise.
We've made some progress since those first novice attempts. The year we ended up in DC for Christmas with my parents, we had several homes offer us money (which of course we refused!)
Last year, the pinacle of all years, I compiled carol folders for 30, had the kids make shakers, and added the carol-by-candlelight element. Which was a good addition to make us look less like a mob as we paraded down the street with such a large group. We followed it up with a reading of the Christmas story, and the making of pipe-cleaner ornaments for our barren tree.

When I look back at what "started it all," I distinctly remember as a teenager piling into the back of our car with brass instruments pressed to the roof, driving about the neighborhood to friend's houses, filing hadpazardly out of the car and into someone's house, my dad leading the way with a hearty "Merry Christmas!"
Later, another significant "peg" in my caroling memory was hearing of the Christmas my parents were alone. They single-handedly organized a neighborhood-wide caroling event outside their house, where 300 people were gathered, and carols were projected on the side of their house. The Salvation Army brass band accompanied, and even my mother's Wicken neighbor prepared a Christmas carol on her harp. My mother served up a feast in open-house style to neighbors yet complete strangers. I was truly in awe of my parents and the scope of this grass-roots event. They knew carols weren't just meant for church. People outside the church were hungry for Christ. My parents went to great efforts to leave no one in the neighborhood uninvited to hear songs of this Christ, the newborn King.

At our house, each year has turned out slightly different from the last, but each has a distinct memory of its own. This year, what is most significant to me, is that it is the first year without my dad, the pioneer of our family's tradition. It's the first year where I have a weighty sense of responsibility for passing down a family tradition he began. The beauty of God's timing is that over the years of married life and a blossoming family, I barely noticed that this tradition has truly become ours. It is no longer me trying to recreate something I did as a kid and teen, but rather a tradition that is uniquely our own, with a rich legacy that came before. Perhaps I'll never have a caroling year as grandios as the one my parents arranged, but it is something to aspire to!