A Winnipeg Christmas story

Early one morning right before Christmas, I awoke to the sound of angels singing. I stayed quiet for a few minutes, searching the darkness for possibilities and letting my eyes adjust to the immediate surrounds.

“Nothing here to explain the sound,” I thought to myself, and began to settle back toward sleep. Then I heard it again. The sound of angels singing. Without further ado, and as quiet as a mouse, I climbed out of bed and went to the window.

Down below in the street, all was calm, all was bright, all was snowy, all was white. The only things on the sidewalk were tiny critter prints, and there was a gentle fog that barely hid the streetlights and neighbourhood decorations. Nothing out of the ordinary for this time of year.

I was about to give up and go back to bed when a car came into view. Now, I knew Santa usually arrived by sleigh, and even if he had changed his mode of transportation, he was a tad early, so this was clearly someone else. Confident that I would not be seen from my perch, I peered through the frosted pane and watched and listened for what I expected would come.

The car stopped right in front of our house, and a moment later, a man climbed out the driver’s side. Although inside the car was probably warm and outside probably not, he left his door slightly ajar, allowing the most beautiful sound to fill the air. “Oh, Holy Night.”

With our morning paper in hand, he walked all the way to our door and back again, accompanied by the sound of angels singing. When he climbed into his car and closed the door, I could still hear, not the angels, but him finishing off the chorus in the safety and solitude of his own company.

The silence that followed gave me pause for consideration.

I watched a lone squirrel scamper across the neighbour’s snowy drive, and then looked around our room, taking note of everything cosy and warm.

I couldn’t help but think how lucky we are to have a roof over our heads, protecting us from the cold, in a country where someone brings you a paper every morning. I felt truly blessed.

Like a cheeky Cheshire cat, I felt a yawn, a stretch, and then a grin coming on. I looked once more outside our window. Our wintry neck of the woods was still mostly fast asleep, but the sun would soon be up, the snow would stop, the moon would disappear along with the fog, and morning would stir us into our day.

I climbed into bed, and as I laid my head on the pillow, I heard a familiar sound — “Oh, Holy Night” — but it was neither the angels nor the newspaper carrier I heard singing. It was me. And with that realisation, I lulled myself off to sleep as winter waited patiently outside.