ANGELS WE HAVE HEARD ON HIGH

The last time I attended a church service was the Christmas Eve when I was 15.

It was the first time that I recall incense being incorporated into the ceremony. The priest slathered it on until the elderly portion of the congregation was clasping wrinkled silk handkerchiefs to their collective noses. The elongated vowels of Gloria in Excelsis Deo competed with brisk, spirited coughing.

It all seemed so absurd at that moment, in the special unvarnished way that things seem absurd when you’re 15.

I excused myself from my mother’s side and slipped out the front door. I walked the mile and a half home in a damp cool midnight, with still-white streetlamps throwing large dots of light across the periodic darkness. It was peaceful— Christmas Eve peaceful— and all I heard was the faint hum of mystery dying inside me...