Jill's Journal: The real gift of Saturday afternoon practices

Growing up, there was a particular kind of magic to the Saturday afternoon Christmas program practice at church – though at the time, most of us kids would’ve sworn otherwise. While our friends were out sledding down the best hills in town, skating lazy circles on the ice rink, or just doing whatever kids ought to be doing on a Saturday afternoon, we were inside those familiar church walls, rehearsing lines we could barely remember and singing songs we absolutely couldn’t forget.

There were always lines to memorize, bells to be played, and carols to be sung – sometimes more loudly than beautifully. The teachers and program directors, bless their patience, would guide us through one more run-through, and then “just one more,” and then maybe – just maybe – we’d get it right.

But the moment that has stayed with me all these years was the processional. Each Christmas Eve the sanctuary was filled to the brim with generations of family. In fact, it was so full that folding chairs had to be set up in the side aisles. It was then that we would begin our walk down the center aisl joining the entire congregation to the traditional tune, O Come, All Ye Faithful.

There was something so powerful in that sound. Voices young and old, sure and wavering, strong and tender, all joining together in a song that felt bigger than any of us.

After our memorized lines has been said and rehearsed songs sung, as we exited we were always gifted a goody bag, essentially a small paper sack filled with candy, peanuts, and, of course, an apple. A tradition as old as the church itself. Adults received an apple.

Still, even the candy paled in comparison to the anticipation that came next. Because after the program was over, my brother and I knew what was awaiting us at home. Without fail, Santa mysteriously managed to stop by our house while we were at church, and the trip home on those cold, starry Christmas Eve nights felt electric. The presents under the tree weren’t just gifts; they were promises. Magic made real. Once we had tore off the wrapping paper, it was back into the car for a solid 90-minute ride to Grandma and Grandpa Schultz’s, where all of our relatives patiently waited for arrival. 

That, too, was a magical part of the night. Grandma’s dining room table would be covered from one end to the other with Christmas treats that were there for the taking. And then it was time to sing songs and open more presents – one at a time, from youngest to oldest. It took time, and the process made me appreciate the gift even more, and more importantly so, who it came from.

Looking back, I can see now what I couldn’t then: that those Saturday practices, as inconvenient as they were for a kid with adventure on her mind, stitched themselves into my heart. They were where tradition took root. Where we learned that sometimes the most meaningful moments are the ones we don’t fully appreciate until much later. 

And every year, without fail, when I hear O Come, All Ye Faithful, I’m transported right back to Christmas Eve’s as a kid. 

Maybe that was the real gift of those Saturday afternoon Christmas program practices.