All Things St. Jacques, NL

© Alex Hickey, 01-12-2023

Time and distance seem to shape our memories of Christmas more than anything else. As Christmases of our childhood and youth fade into the past with the inevitable passage of the years, they take on a nostalgic aura. Central heating was not a luxury in many houses in rural Newfoundland. It just didn’t exist. We can talk about icy cold floor canvas that left your toes numb after a minute of standing barefoot in the morning or fingers without sensation from being exposed to chilling wet mitts from hours of play in the snow. We could also talk about the bitter winds that came in off the ocean that threatened to peel the skin from your face or the chapped lips that cracked with piercing pain every time you moved your lips to eat. Yet, we choose to recall the warm stove in the kitchen where we melted our frozen fingers, where soft, woolen, hand-knit socks hung waiting for eager feet. We talk about watching whitecaps on the harbour and marvel at the recollection of snow drifting past the window and the tasty delights placed before us upon visiting another’s home.

Christmas Eve church services in small communities were great levelling forces. Most residents found it an occasion to step beyond any differences they may have had with a neighbour, to mend fences and share a common experience under the same roof. They brought people together with a communal purpose and reaffirmed being a community. I’ve read accounts of attending such services from recent years, as well as from the fifties, the thirties, and even the 1890s. They all share references to togetherness, even if it was only for an hour or two. You find it in recollections of singing familiar hymns, hearing notable voices, and sitting as a family in the same pew.

We recall arriving early to get a place to sit, or else you’d be standing at the back of the church. We remember the heat from the stove, steam on the windows, the smell of burning candles, the scent released by freshly cut evergreen boughs which decorated the place, and the mingling that occurred after the service ended.

If there was a children’s choir, we tell of watching and listening with enormous pride as the little ones sang their hearts out louder and better than anyone else’s child. The fullness of one’s heart swelling in response and the warm tears that trickled down both cheeks were shared not with words but through a quiet, knowing nod and a genial smile at one’s neighbour. We remember those things, and it makes us feel good for a few minutes, then we move on. If we reflect on those feelings about the Christmas Eve service, we will realize it was not a spontaneous event of an hour’s duration that happened automatically. People invested many hours of their time, day and night, to bring it all together in that warm fuzzy experience we’ve wrapped in ribbons and bows. The choir met with the organist and the clergy to decide which songs and hymns to sing, rehearsed them until they flowed as smoothly as the syrup of the season, and then forfeited the opportunity to witness the event from a pew with their families to bring smiles to the faces of the congregation as a whole. Several people took time out of their day to go into the woods, choose the right branches to cut, harvest and transport them to the church, where others volunteered to trim, shape and tie them into uniform arrangements and decorate the church. That smell of the forest that permeated the church and embedded itself in our memory as the temperature rose was there because a group of people cared enough to collaborate and make it happen.

Frost had been driven from the windows earlier in the day, and the pews had relinquished their chill before the first congregation member arrived because the wood had been harvested months earlier, dried, sawed and split, then stored for winter use. Someone else had lit the fire early afternoon, tended to the stove and returned intermittently throughout the evening to keep it fed with fuel. The floors, pews, walls, windows and altar sparkled with cleanliness as a result of volunteers, who, a week earlier, laboured throughout an afternoon on hands and knees to give everything a fresh lustre.

Brass received an energetic polish from confident hands the day before. Altar linens were laundered, dried and ironed to perfection in someone’s home, then carried to the church for another person whose role it was to prepare the altar for the evening. Vestments were laid out, books positioned on the altar, and opened to the readings of the occasion by familiar fingers. Music sheets were organized in advance by the same hands who practiced playing them for several days.

Bells rang loudly from the steeple, carried across the water and echoed off the surrounding hills and invited everyone to worship because the skill of yanking a rope to create the perfect sound sequence for the event had been learned and practiced over time. Snow on the walk leading to the church door could be seen in piles on both sides, and the steps were bare. Small water puddles meant someone had applied salt to ensure everyone’s safety.

While the last note of the organist followed people down the aisle, an oft-repeated comment accompanied it – “It’s nice to see the church so full. There’s something about Christmas Eve that draws people out. But, by next week, we’ll be back to the regular old crowd.” All three observations give us insight. On Christmas Eve, we all wanted to be part of something bigger than ourselves, and there was a group of dedicated volunteers in the community who, like the stage crew of a theatrical performance, worked diligently and expertly to ensure that experience for us. Years later, as the season draws nigh, our minds wander back to those experiences and fondly remember the sights, sounds, smells and joyous feelings we derived from them. We wax eloquently and readily express regret that such events don’t happen on the scale witnessed years ago. Wouldn’t it be nice to go back, we say to kindred spirits. Indeed, it would. However, there is quite a lot of living in between that would have to be forfeited.

As we recall the Christmases of yesterday with our friends this year, let’s remember that the magic we remember with such affection didn’t occur in a vacuum. Many hands worked diligently behind the scenes to pull the strings to create that magic. Let’s remember them and ask ourselves if we’ve gone the distance lately to make magic happen in someone else’s life. If not, it’s time to help someone else experience a Christmas to remember.