“Carols of Caring,” Ensign, Dec. 1991, 65
It was Christmas Eve, and my father insisted that we all go Christmas caroling. Singing wasn’t the problem. Singing had always been one of our family’s favorite pastimes. The problem was that it was Christmas Eve—a time to be with family and friends. Who would really want to listen to our family of carolers on such an important night?
First, we headed to the home of a girlhood chum of my mother’s. She was a sister who had never married. She greeted us warmly and invited us inside her home. We visited briefly and sang a few carols; then we were on our way.
Well, I thought, she is such a happy, bubbly person that she probably doesn’t even mind being alone.
Next we went to the home of a neighbor who is not a member of the Church. We were again greeted with open arms. She ushered us into her small living room, where she had been spending the evening alone.
The next stop was at the home of some distant relatives of ours. I thought, They won’t be alone. This is really going to be embarrassing.
Again, we were greeted and invited into the home. The wife was working, and the husband, who suffered from ill health, was home alone.
By this time I was feeling humble. Those few stops had opened my eyes. I had never been alone on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day.
We went to five different homes that night. At each home it was the same—a person all alone. And it did seem that as we left each home, the occupant’s eyes shone a little brighter and his or her heart seemed lighter. Maybe it was my eyes and my heart that had been lightened.
From that time on, Christmas caroling has been a significant Christmas tradition. We’ve gone many times throughout the years. Last Christmas was one of those times when I was on the receiving end. A group of neighborhood carolers came to our home. They must really care about us, I thought as they left. Once again, my heart had been lightened and my eyes brightened by a brief Christmas caroling call.