Dale Lloyd

He shuffled through the fresh-fallen snow, his coat unbuttoned in the winter’s blow. It hung upon his fragile frame as though it wrapped him up in shame. His heavy hair hung long and dark; his eyes betrayed no living spark. Candles glowed in the windows of the church – a beacon in the night, their warmth and welcome reaching out to him with gentle light. Should he trust their quiet wooing, or keep on walking, darkness choosing? He gathered up his courage thin and slowly pushed the old door in. He felt it in the atmosphere—a silent message whispering, “Not wanted here.” For a moment he wondered if it might be best to seek another place of rest.

One single seat remained that night, not at the back nor out of sight. He pulled his coat around him and headed for that space while every weary floorboard announced his laboured pace. No hands reached out to welcome him; he didn’t smell too good to them. Nothing changed—not then, not ever—until the choir rose to sing the Christmas songs together. He hesitated, unsure if he belonged, but soon he made his choice. He staggered slowly to his feet and lifted up his voice.

The congregation sat spellbound, overwhelmed and lifted high. The voice—O God, that tenor voice—pulled the notes down from the sky. He opened not a hymnbook; the printed page he did not see. And yet his strong, melodious voice hit every note so perfectly. Every word distinct and clear—a sacred offering for all to hear. One by one the people rose, their tears revealing secret woes.

How could this be? It wasn’t right. Who was this stranger in the night? That Christmas Eve so long ago, the angels caused the earth to glow. Had one returned to earth again to sing a Christmas song to them? He disappeared the way he came—no food, no rest, to us unnamed. And if an angel was our guest… we truly failed the simple test.