I shot a glance across the sanctuary to my friend, our eyes meeting in a knowing look. I could sense that her face was breaking into the same goofy grin as mine. Not wanting to be noticed in it, I quickly looked away and pretended to listen to the sermon. We were excited because soon after church would be our first Christmas choir practice — the week we’d been waiting for all year.

My memories of Christmas choir at that little church, nestled between some fields and a rural highway, span nearly every year of my childhood. My earliest choir memory is of the time I was six and cried because I was scared to sing at the local nursing home. With some encouragement from Dad, I pulled it together just in time for my solo at the beginning of Happy Birthday Jesus.

The song was supposed to end with my solo as well, but it turned into a duet as my young cousin sang it with me. I joined the rest of the choir — and our audience — in giggling. I was decidedly over my fear of old people. That year, the choir epitomized 1999 fashion in matching green sweatshirts accented with white music notes.

For the next ten years or so, my friends and I would eagerly anticipate the month of Sundays when we’d get to stay at church, eat pizza, and belt Christmas carols with varying levels of talent. The list of carols, chosen by the mom who patiently directed us each year, would invariably include classics like Silent Night and fun stuff like We Wish You a Merry Christmas. Perhaps, if enough people signed up, we’d even get a chance to attempt the complicated parts in Carol of the Bells.

But between the pizza, stressing out before solo auditions and agonizing over who you stood next to during performances, I gained something of eternal value.

O Holy Night became more than its hauntingly beautiful melody. It became about celebrating Christ’s transforming power on earth — chains shall he break for the slave is our brother, and in his name all oppression shall cease.

O Come O Come Emmanuel became more than the energetic rhythm of the song’s contemporary arrangement on my practice cassette tape. It was about a people waiting for their Messiah — O come, O come, Emmanuel and ransom captive Israel — who after years of silence finally came to rescue them and all humanity — Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

The outreaches we participated in each year also grew in their meaning for me.

I learned what it meant to truly worship and be filled with wonder — not at Santa’s magic, but at the miracle of Jesus’ birth.

Visiting local nursing homes became about more than who could make the most greeting cards to give to the residents; it became about singing to hallways full of wheelchair-bound people, watching them join in as misty memories filled their eyes, and reminding them that they weren’t alone.

Caroling became about more than bundling up on chilly nights and singing for the best-decorated houses; it became about stopping at houses that weren’t glowing with lights, and watching suspicion transform into surprise and then joy as the faces at the door realized they weren’t forgotten.

We can be told over and over by parents or pastors that Jesus is the reason for the season, that the holidays are about giving and not just getting, and that we should remember those less fortunate, especially this time of year. But singing about Jesus and participating in simple outreaches made those truths real to me.

I learned what it meant to truly worship and be filled with wonder — not at Santa’s magic, but at the miracle of Jesus’ birth. I experienced the kind of inexplicable joy that comes not from getting presents or even giving things, but of sharing gospel love with those who need it most.

So thank you to the parents, church leaders, and friends who made Christmas choir at that little church possible. The Christmas holiday, and my love for Christ, are richer because of it.