“Joy to the World, the Lord is Come! Let earth receive her King,” I sang with my friends from Campfire Girls. Bundled in warm coats and woolen hats, we hardly noticed the night’s chill as we sang to our neighbors one December evening, long ago. My piano teacher smiled at us from her doorway. A toddler laughed in her arms, clinging to her with one hand and pointing to us with the other.

“Merry Christmas!” we said when we had finished. “Merry Christmas!”

We turned to the street and tromped to the next house. “Race you,” Sara said. She lunged into an awkward jog on the snow-covered street. She darted ahead of me, gaining momentum.

“Slow down, Sara,” said her mother, the adult who accompanied us.

Sara stopped running and slid in her boots along the packed tire tracks. I slid too. Other girls joined in and we ran and slid to the next house. Sara’s mother led us to the porch and rang the doorbell. A retired couple opened the door and we sang, “O Come, All Ye Faithful. . .” Our words wafted into the crisp air on puffs of vapor.

Our youthful energy carried us from door to door. Snowflakes fluttered through the black sky and smattered my cheeks with sprinkles. We passed under a street light and paused to watch the new snow float down. The flakes glinted in the light beam as they settled onto knee-high drifts on the ground. Tiny crystals of fallen snow sparkled like tiny polished gemstones.

We cut a trail across unbroken snow in a neighborhood park and skirted tennis courts which had been transformed into a winter ice-skating rink. Pine trees flanked our exit from the park, each cluster of needles decorated with tufts of snow.

As I passed the pines, Sara ran up behind me and bounced a limb. Snow sprayed in every direction, showering my face with needles of ice. I brushed the snow from my coat and chased her onto the residential street. We proceeded from house to house, sending joyous strains of familiar Christmas carols into the night air and wishing all a Merry Christmas.

Ontario Street marked the edge of town and we paused when we arrived. On the other side stood an apple orchard, still tended by an aging farmer. I expected that we would turn around and head back but Sara’s mother nodded across the street to the little farm house nestled in drifts of unbroken snow. “Let’s go there.”

“Nobody’s home, Mom,” Sara said.

“I bet he’s there,” her mother said. “Come on, girls, one more stop before we head home.”

I shivered, suddenly cold. The only time I’d seen the elderly farmer had been months ago when I had ridden my bicycle into his blooming orchard. He gruffly told me this was no place to play. “Go home,” he said, his face unsmiling and stern.

I dragged along with the last of the girls as we trudged across Ontario Street. None of us laughed now. We didn’t run and slide up his path. We plodded up the driveway, a smooth field of unbroken whiteness glowing in the night between rows of trees, the bare branches skeletal against mounds of snow.

We reached the back porch of the old farm house and crowded onto the landing. One of the girls broke an icicle from the porch roof and handed it to Sara.

“I don’t think anybody’s here,” Sara said again.

“Knock anyway. I see a light in there,” her mother said.

Sara knocked, timidly at first. She knocked louder the second time. The porch light came on. “How about ‘What Child is This?’ Ready?” Sara’s mother whispered.

The door swung open and the old farmer stared at us, a strange look on his face.

We sang, “What child is this who, laid to rest, on Mary’s lap is sleeping?”

Tears filled his eyes as we sang. At the last chord, he tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. Sara’s mother took his elbow and guided him to a chair at the kitchen table.

“Have them come in,” he managed to whisper.

Sara’s mom motioned us into the kitchen. Someone started “Dashing through the snow,” and the rest joined in. We sang other songs, filling his house with music.

“Want some hot chocolate?” He leaned forward to stand.

“Let me,” Sara’s mom said. She bustled about the kitchen, stirring chocolate syrup into warming milk on the stove. It was the best hot chocolate I’d ever had.

We sang more songs. We sang all the Christmas songs we knew. I helped Sara wash the cups and return them to their cupboard.

“I’ve got to get these girls home,” her mother said.

We filed out the door and sang one more time, a hearty rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas!” we called as we turned away. “Merry Christmas!” Our boots crunched through the crystalline snow on our way toward Ontario Street. We had not quite reached the end of the driveway when a bell rang behind us. We turned to look back toward the farm house and the barn behind it. The tones deep and clear from an old school bell, rose from a belfry on top of the barn and floated through the air above us.

I tipped my head backwards, as if I could see the tones mingling with the snowflakes in the dark sky. The bell rang on, filling my heart with wonder. None of us spoke when the ringing stopped. The chimes died away in the pristine night air and stillness blanketed us with the enchantment of a winter evening.

Sara’s mother spoke with reverence and awe. “I haven’t heard that bell ring in twenty years.”

Twenty years.

Ever since that crystalline December night when I witnessed the magic of music, the custom of caroling has been a favorite holiday tradition. Music bridges generations, unites families, heals broken hearts, and brings good will to all. Seasons come and seasons go and I am now an old woman, pondering all the Christmases of my past. The love, the feasting, the hugs from distant family members coming together, the festive decorations, and anticipated years to come, but of all those years, none has quite matched the experience of hearing that old church bell peal across a snow-covered neighborhood, a message of hope, joy, and gratitude from one generation to the next.

May Heaven and Nature ring for generations to come.