The church itself was empty when we arrived, a complete choice of seats. the wife turned left and headed up the bell tower to the choir loft, leaving the two of us on our own. I tried to settle in on a back pew, but eldest son just charged up and took an aisle seat in the front half.

Okay, it's awkward enough even being here, but I certainly don't want to stumble through a Mass on my own.

So, row seven it was.

The choir started singing a full fifty minutes before midnight, welcoming the arrivals with their music. Their first song, a standard Christmas carol, started solo with a deep male voice from behind us on the right. Then he was answered. Not by a few, but by a whole host of women's altos on the left.

It sent chills up my skin. Literally. And watered the eyes. It was incredible. They had sounded nothing like this at rehearsal. Lifting, angelic, joyous, yes, this was all of those things.

And yes, I could pick out my Angel's voice in that host, leading at times, blending in and supporting at others.

As they neared the end of the first song, I had to turn and look. And saw a complete row of singers lining the loft. At least fifteen in the front, mostly women in bright holiday dress, and then others in back that I could not see.

And I was not the only one to turn and stare. Everyone, save one man, in the pews in front of us turned to look at least once. Their faces surprised, and maybe a little awestruck.

You see, in the two-plus decades we have been in this community, I'll bet that loft has never held more than three or four singers, maybe a half dozen at most. And for several years, at most Masses it has usually been just one.

But this was something special, a Christmas gift to this congregation.

From some of the other Christian faiths in town. As the priest said in his thank you at the end of Mass, this was a truly ecumenical choir. With volunteers from the local Presbyterian and Methodist Churches, including one's pastor.

And what a gift it was. One woman in the front just simply turned and watched, her face aglow for almost the entire recital, until the Mass began.

My Angel's solo, "Angels We Have Heard on High", was the second carol and her voice flew strong and true. The tears that had welled up before had to be wiped away. And ohh, those Glorias!

Most of the hymns in the rest of the Mass were common carols, and it was such a pleasure, and a remembrance, to join in after so many years.

A couple, however, were unfamiliar Catholic tunes, all the more unfamiliar because they were sung in the original Latin. The Latin was written phonetically in the music sheets, so I and the young members of the congregation who had rarely heard such music were able to sing along. I could not help but think about the ancientness of these words. Hymns that were sung for probably a millenia before the faith of my many-times great-grandfathers split off from this church.

It was a gift, indeed.

They had the usual pause in the Mass to allow everyone to turn and greet, or even hug, their neighbors. I knew none of the folks in the pews in front of and behind us, but after shaking hands with the elderly Hispanic gentleman behind me, I glanced up at the Angel in the loft above, and got a wink in return.

The end of the Mass seemed to come suddenly, the priest, deacon, acolyte and four Knights with their capes, swords and feathered hats filing out as the choir led the congregation in one last carol. Then the wait at the bottom of the bell tower, for my Angel to return to Earth.

I had been disappointed youngest son had not been home that evening, and did not accompany us to Mass. Just to hear his mother sing, if nothing else. But the wife, from her high vantage point, had spotted him in the congregation, on the left side. He had come of his own accord, with no reminder. It makes your heart swell when they grow, even if they seem to do it on their own.

The night seemed too special to end, and I was surprised to find the wife had the same idea as I.

Breakfast.

So the second hour of this special Christmas Day found the three of us at the nearly empty local truck stop, bantering with the poor waitress who had to work Christmas Eve. The wife and I enjoying our standard breakfasts, the same we have enjoyed together since before we were married.

Eldest son had sausage and biscuits. And the waitress had to make a pot of decaf, because they don't get much call for that this late at night along the interstate.

And yeah, we left a good tip.