Withness

For three years now, I’ve attended an unlikely holiday concert. Accomplished musicians take the stage—people who sing in operas, play in orchestras, give piano lessons, direct musicals, own music stores, and hold master’s degrees in music. But these people, for all their qualifications, are not the stars.

They take the stage, not go into the spotlight, but as supporting vocalists for the leads, who sing with meaning and dignity and sometimes with gusto but who are often off key and out of rhythm.

We’re with you—this is the message the trained musicians give to singers from the county’s program for those with developmental delays.

And the audience echoes the same message from their seats, mouthing words to the songs, clapping in time to the music, and fist bumping singers who return to their seats. In the whole auditorium, no one slouches or frowns or glances at their phones. And everyone accepts the gifts of music, just as they’re given, without critique.

Together, we rock around the Christmas tree and tell it on the mountain and confess that all we want for Christmas is a big, collective you.

In the finale, we all sing—the performers, the supporters, and the audience—of a white Christmas and hearing sleigh bells in the snow. And we wish each other days that are merry and bright.

As I walk through a whipping wind to my car, I think about withness, that this is what Christmas is about. Grandmas with grandkids, sisters with brothers, parents with children, friends with friends, God with people. Withness is an entering into, a willingness to set aside our own domains and become fully present to others.

I’ll come back next year to this unlikely holiday concert. By then, I’ll be needing another reminder.