"Silent Night" Has Never Been the Same Since...

There is no song that shares the warm and fuzzy Christmas

feelings around the planet like “Silent Night”.

 

It’s a song that’s been translated into every language. It’s easily

sung, and somehow it just wouldn’t be Christmas if I weren’t

in a church where we lit candles and sang that song.

 

Everyone knows the feeling from singing and hearing that

song. But my reaction is always so intense I can hardly sing

the words as I am reminded of the candle lit face of

a little girl, and my eyes get teary and my voice gets choked.

 

I spent more than 35 years working in television news. Whenever people

ask about “What the story you covered you remember the most”

I always remember the event involving that song.

 

But I always talk about meeting famous people or some other

thing because I can’t verbally tell the story. The words are there,

but the tears get in the way and the voice breaks before I can

get it all out.

 

It started at the height of the Vietnam War. Many

American military personnel were prisoners of war or

missing in action, and there was a growing movement to

call attention to their plights.

 

I was working and living in Phoenix, and there were two

Air Force bases nearby.  It seemed to me a good Christmas

story would be to interview a woman with children

whose husband was listed as a prisoner or missing in action.

 

Sadly, the biggest roadblock was not in finding a willing

family, but in working out a way to maintain secrecy about

their whereabouts. Many in the anti-war movement

seemed to delight in taunting the families about the plights

of their loved ones, referring to them as criminals.

 

(Later in life I would be very active in peace movements and

activities. I would always be ashamed that people who claimed

to be a part of that movement during the Vietnam conflict

missed the point of peacemaking entirely. The wives and

children of those men were as much victims as anyone else.

And anyone who taunts someone whose loved one

is in such jeopardy doesn’t understand the concepts

of peace or love.)

 

Like many such cases at the time, it was what wasn’t known

that mattered. It was known the plane was shot down, but it

wasn’t known if the pilot survived.

 

Was he dead?

Was he hiding in the jungle?

Was he in a prison camp?

 

The only thing that was certain is that he wouldn’t be

home with the family that Christmas.

 

As I arrived at the house and was setting up my camera

equipment I asked the mother to step outside a moment.

“Is there anything I shouldn’t say to the children?” I asked.

She assured me they were all very aware of the situation

and anything I wanted to ask was fine.

 

The first part of the story was routine. Getting pictures of

the tree and presents—including a few gifts for dad. There

was also a nativity scene, and other strong visual

evidence of the family’s Christian faith.

 

I know I interviewed the mother next, but I have no memory what

she said for then I lined up the children on the couch—two boys

and two girls. I wanted them to tell me on camera what they

wanted for Christmas. The idea was they were to say they

wanted something tangible like a new bicycle or a puppy or ‘

some other thing I could easily arrange for a local business or

organization to donate.

 

But it didn’t go that way. Not even close to it.

 

“I want my dad to come home,” the oldest boy said. Then

the next oldest boy said the same thing, and then a daughter,

and the littlest girl of all—born five days after her father’s

plane was shot down--paused and seemed briefly stumped

for an answer.

 

The big brother whispered to his brother who whispered

to his sister who whispered to his little sister, and then she

came forth with the answer I had just heard three times before.

If only I could get someone to donate daddy getting home.

 

As I was preparing to leave, and having a hard time

keeping my emotions in check, I noticed a photo of the

missing pilot I hadn’t seen before, so I set up my camera to

get  a nice shot of it. The mother immediately picked it

up and said  she had to clean it off first. It was covered, she

said, with  fingerprints and lip prints of the children who kissed

the picture every night.

 

Somehow I thanked the mother, got in the car and left. My

emotional state was like an ice cube on a Phoenix sidewalk

in July. Rapid meltdown was hitting me hard.

 

A year later the POW-MIA families were having a ceremony

at the State Capitol just before Christmas. The assignment

editor wanted me to cover it because of the public reaction

we had received from my story the previous year.

 

But I didn’t want to repeat the emotional stress, so I called the

people in charge of the event, and asked about the family I

had interviewed. They wouldn’t be participating, I was told,

and so I agreed to cover the story, feeling confident my

emotions would not again be jerked inside out.

 

It was a moving ceremony in the old state capitol building

with a dome and a circular balcony looking down on the

state seal. At the end of the service the children were going

to have lighted candles and sing “Silent Night”.

 

This, I knew, would be the end of the broadcast

story. There wouldn’t be a dry eye in Phoenix when they saw

those little kids faces and heard the music and words and at

the end we’d just fade to black and go to a commercial.

 

From a visual perspective it was going better than I dreamed.

There was just enough light coming from the candles to give

each small face a bit of yellow glow. It was an outstanding

cinematography opportunity as I panned from left to

right, changing the focus, and filling the frame with a different

face very few seconds.

 

And then it happened.

 

Wham! It hit me in the eye like a speeding fastball. It was

the face of that little girl who the year before had been

sitting on the couch! My eye was in the viewfinder and

all that I could see was the beautiful face, lit by candles, and

her mouthing the words of“Sleep in heavenly peace.”

 

Part of my reaction was shock, and there was even some

Brief anger. Someone lied and told me they wouldn’t be here!

I knew I would be an emotional wreck all through the

holidays because I had seen that family again.

 

After the ceremony I saw the mother and sister and

brothers and walked over to say hello. I was greeted warmly

and told again how much they appreciated the story the

previous year.

 

Somehow I started getting a grasp of my holiday emotions.

 

The next year I called them on the phone to tell them how

much their show of faith meant to me and how Christmas

was more special now because of them.

 

A few years later the POWs and MIAs started being accounted

for and were coming home. I covered a few of them as

families had father join them for breakfast and dad went to

his son’s Little League game.

 

Here’s where you think you’re going to get the warm

and fuzzy message about the dad being found and all being

right with the world.

 

It didn’t happen that way. A government bureaucrat

decided there was enough evidence to declare the pilot legally

dead. There was the traditional ceremony with the playing of

taps, the firing squad, the missing man formation of jets flying overhead, and

the presentation of the tri-fold flag to the widow and

children with the words, “On behalf of the President of the

United States and a grateful nation…”

 

Now, dear reader, you’re probably angry with me because

you’re not getting the warm and fuzzy feeling you thought

you would be getting from a story about “Silent Night”.

 

But if you really feel that way, then you’ve missed the point

of the day.

 

For Christmas isn’t just about presents and feeling  good.

It’s the day we mark the birth of the Savior. The one

who died for us. Christmas is only the beginning of the

story.

 

And if we don’t understand that, if we believe the words “was

born, crucified, and rose again” then we’ve missed the entire

point of Christmas. If we don’t believe those basics of the faith,

then we’ve lost the right to get warm and fuzzy feelings when

we hear “Silent Night”, or get goose bumps when we hear

the “Hallelujah Chorus” or feel good when we sing “Joy to

the World”.

 

I learned the lesson from a little girl whose face I will see

forever whenever I hear a melody beloved all over the world.

She paid a very high price so I could finally get the

message I often heard sung by Harry Belefonte: “Long

time ago, in Bethlehem, so the Holy Bible say, Mary boy child Jesus

Christ was born on Christmas Day, and we shall live

forevermore because of Christmas Day.”

 

If she would ever learn about the impact she and the song had

on me, I hope she would think the price was worthy.