The house stood, as it had for 100 years, steady and proud among the other houses on the block; some nearly as old, but none older; and none that looked quite as dignified. It was empty now. Echoing. The walls held memories of weddings and post-funeral gatherings. They kept whispered secrets from one inhabitant to another, and remembered the incessant chatter of children growing up and shrieks and the sound of pattering feet. They had absorbed stories of missionaries from different lands and professors and a college dean and those who gave hours and days and years to churches. And graduations. And parties. They had heard weeping both loud and muffled. They had endured the sound of dogs and cats and chickens. And news of some wars. And prayers; prayers for help and healing, for a young man leaving for the military, for babies, for those whose faith wavered, and, of course, thanks in all of its variations from surprise to anticipated to relief-filled. Those walls had loved the sound of music. They had listened to piano lessons and music played and sung for the blessed sake of enjoyment. And for many many years it almost seemed the walls had joined in the lovely harmonies of Christmas carols sung at Christmas.

So on Christmas Eve, after a church service with candles and Silent Night, she drove down the dark streets to the old house and climbed its steps. Unlocking the door, she turned on the light, and walked to the center of the living room. And there she sang the old carols of long ago and not so long ago. She sang for the memories and for the beauty and precious gifts of music. She sang with hope for goodness in the tired world. And she sang for her Savior, Jesus, who held everything together. 2,000 years ago. 100 years ago. Today. And future days and years. And the walls heard. And they remembered.

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