“Every year, I start listening to Christmas music right after Halloween. Yes, I’m one of those people. I can’t help it! Music has always held a special place in my heart, but there’s one Christmas song in particular that never fails to make me laugh out loud. The memory behind it is priceless—and completely absurd.
When I was a teenager, my mom was involved in a pretty serious car accident just before Christmas. (Don’t worry—that’s not the funny part. Just bear with me.) I can’t recall all the details, but I’m fairly certain winter weather played a role. Thankfully, my mom was okay, though she came home from the hospital bruised, sore, and sporting two black eyes, stiff muscles, and a small collection of prescription pain medicine.
Her recovery went surprisingly well. She’s an intelligent, fiercely independent woman, and she mostly took care of herself. Occasionally, she’d ask me for a glass of water or an extra blanket, but otherwise, she’d cozy herself up in bed and watch the endless Christmas specials airing on TV.
One evening, with my dad still at work, she announced she was going to take her pain meds and go to bed early. Nothing unusual there—except that about an hour later, something utterly unexpected happened. My brother and I were upstairs watching a movie when suddenly music erupted from my mom’s room so loudly that we could feel it shaking the floor beneath us. It kept getting louder, until she flung open her bedroom door and yelled, ‘Kids! Get down here! Hurry!’
I looked at my brother, and my heart sank. Oh my gosh, I thought. She must have fallen. I need to call Dad. I need to call an ambulance. Panicked, we raced downstairs, bracing ourselves for the worst. But instead of finding her on the floor, there she was—sitting elegantly in bed, beaming with pride at the TV, completely unhurt. Confused, I went over to turn down the volume. ‘Mom, what’s wrong? Are you okay?’ I asked. She ignored me and lightly tapped her hands on the bed. ‘Sit down for a minute. I need to tell you something.’
My imagination ran wild, expecting some dire news. But no. Nothing like that. My mother—smart, sensible, and normally very grounded—gestured toward the choir of children singing Christmas carols on the TV. ‘Do you kids know what song they’re singing?’ she asked. ‘Yes,’ I replied, still bewildered. ‘It’s “O, Holy Night.”’
She nodded solemnly, then, with a sparkle in her eyes and a proud smile beneath her bruised cheeks, announced, ‘I wrote that song!’ My brother and I erupted with laughter, and soon enough, so did she—medication-induced giggles mixing with genuine delight at her own bold declaration. We all laughed until our stomachs hurt. Eventually, I turned off the TV, tucked her into bed, and watched her drift off to sleep, still smiling.
From that day forward, no one in our family can sing ‘O, Holy Night’ without cracking up. And every year, without fail, I tell someone new that my mom—the unassuming, brilliant, slightly bruised woman—was the secret composer of one of the greatest Christmas hymns ever written.”
