It’s that magical time of year again. Candles and poinsettias decorate every surface, small children are dressed as sheep, angels are telling people to “Fear not.” So, really, with Christmas just hours away, what do any of us have to fear?
Me, bitch.
I’m the high A flat at the end of “O Holy Night,” and I’m not optional. I’m printed right there in the second ending after the coda, soaring above the treble clef line. I will be sung.
Were you thinking about presents? The ham defrosting at home? The birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ in the most humble and abject of circumstances? Not anymore!
It says “Special Music: O Holy Night” right there in the bulletin, between the sermon and the offering, and now you’re not going to be able to think about anything else. You’ll be on the edge of your seat waiting for me, because you’ve heard way too many singers screech and waver and get me all wrong. What catastrophe awaits this time?
And just like that, I’ve hijacked the whole service.