A Christmas Story

Herbert was a Catholic gentleman; of that there was no doubt. He liked his drinks, but at 82, he was of age and no one questioned his moderation. He’d take a half turn on the barstool and all the whiskey in the shot glass; and then, like the whiskey didn’t faze him, he’d tell his stories.

“We lived down below the Sisters, went over to St. Mary’s to church. I was in the choir over there. I used to take the Sisters fresh cream so just so they’d have fresh cream to cream their coffee,” he said.

It was one Christmas morning, Herbert recalled. He got up before daylight that morning. Before he had gone to sleep, he’d prayed: “Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God’s love commits me here, ever this night be at my side, to light and guard and rule and guide.” Waking was bland and painful. But this was Christmas morning and something about it, we, he was just automatically peaceful it seemed, and full of joy inside himself. Outside there spun a flock of black and gray chickens. Snow had fallen and was falling.

He had to feed the chickens before Mass; but, boy, it was down below cold outside, that morning it was. Herbert stiffened to the cold as he strewed feed on the frozen ground. He talked to those chickens just like they were somebody that day. He wanted the chickens to share his joy.

Five-thirty Mass on Christmas morning was a large, quiet, reverent, freshly cooled bunch of people. The servers lit the candles for the low Mass. Herbert heard the shuffle of the altar boy’s cassock as he put the book. The big crib off to one side had a single bulb shining down on the Baby Jesus. In the background was a painted, dawning scene extending to Bethlehem.

Herbert walked the long way back home as the snow came harder. His mother fixed him one of those only-on-Christmas warm kind of breakfasts, creamed coffee, all. It was good. “Herbert, you’re not going back to the 10:30 this morning, are you? That snow is really coming down. You stay home now. It’s Christmas,” his mother said. No, he said. He was going back. Father Sullivan was depending on him.

Father Sullivan paced the chancel, half reading his Breviary and half losing his place, mumbling to the congregation about Mass starting late. He stopped, though, and espied a bowed, bustling, snow-stomping Herbert in the vestibule.

“Ah, we have a choir,” he said, and he turned for the sacristy to vest for the High Mass.

Herbert climbed to the choir-loft to find not a soul. He looked down at the altar with the high candles lit. There were poinsettias. St. Joseph and Mary watched over the Christ Child as Father Sullivan followed the server out, genuflected and turned to face the congregation with aspergillum.

“Asperges me,” Father Sullivan sang, as Herbert’s glance lowered to meet the rising gaze of the priest. There was an awkward pause. “Domine hyssopo et mundabor,” Herbert sang, embarrassed, alone. He sang the Kyrie, St. Jerome’s Gloria, the Sanctus and the Agnus Dei. His embarrassment eased and left him. At the end of Mass, the congregation joined Herbert in a triumphant “Adeste Fideles.”

Father Sullivan genuflected, turned and looked up at Herbert in the choir-loft. A beaming smile crowded Father’s face. “Herbert,” he said, “may I see you a moment in the sacristy, please.” Herbert knelt and Father gave him his blessing. He then produced an array of sacramental objects, asking Herbert to choose something that he liked. “Herbert,” he said, “the way you sang the morning has made my Christmas for me.”

Herbert, staying on his knees, said; “Father Sullivan, instead of these, well, Father, I don’t want to sing in the choir. I want to be an altar boy. I’ve always heard, Father, that if you were ever an altar boy that you’d never die without the assistance of a priest.”

Father smiled gently. “You sing in the choir, Herbert. And when you die, for sure a priest will be there.”

“O thank you, Father,” Herbert said. “You have made my Christmas for me.”

Herbert Howard was a lean fellow with a weathered face. His means were humble, though he had a big house. His wife was gone and he lived alone, using only a few rooms in the place. He enjoyed the company of the neighborhood tavern. People knew him as a religious man. Herbert died Oct 25, 1978, just after a priest had given him the last rites of the Church. He was 85. –T.R.

written by Thomas A. Russell
first published in the Lafayette Sunday Visitor on December 21st, 1986