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 been tied to my strongest memories, but there’s one Christmas song that never fails to make me laugh until I cry.
When I was a teenager, my mom was in a serious car accident just before Christmas. (Hold on, this isn’t the funny part yet.) I can’t recall all the details, but I’m fairly certain the winter weather played a role. She was okay in the end, but she came home from the hospital pretty banged up—two black eyes, stiff muscles, and a small collection of prescription pain medicine courtesy of the airbag deployment.
Her recovery went surprisingly well. My mom is smart, independent, and determined; she mostly took care of herself. I remember only the occasional request for a glass of water or an extra blanket. Other than that, she’d curl up in her bed, cozy and tucked in, watching every Christmas special the TV could offer.
One evening, my dad wasn’t home yet. Mom announced she was going to take her pain medication and go to bed early. This wasn’t unusual during her recovery, but what happened about an hour later was completely unexpected.
My brother and I were upstairs, watching a movie, when suddenly—BOOM!—music erupted from Mom’s bedroom so loudly the floor seemed to vibrate beneath us. The volume climbed higher and higher, and then, with wild enthusiasm, Mom flung open her bedroom door and shouted, “Kids! Get down here! Hurry!”
Panic surged through me. “Oh my gosh,” I thought. “She must’ve fallen. I need to call Dad. I need to call an ambulance!” My brother and I sprinted downstairs, hearts racing, expecting to find her in trouble. But instead, there she was—sitting very ladylike in her bed, grinning proudly at the TV she had cranked up full blast.
Confused and a little shaken, I rushed over to turn down the volume. “Mom, what’s wrong?! Are you okay?!” I asked. She ignored my panic and lightly patted the bed beside her. “Sit down for a minute. I need to tell you something,” she said.
My imagination ran wild, assuming some dire announcement was coming. But no. No, not at all.
Mom—my normally sane, brilliant, completely rational mother—pointed at the TV screen where a choir of children sang Christmas carols. “Do you kids know what song they’re singing right now?” she asked.
“Yes… ‘O Holy Night,’” I replied, still confused.
She turned to us, eyes sparkling with pride through the swelling of her black eyes and soft cheekbones. And, with absolute confidence, she announced:
“I wrote that song.”
My brother and I collapsed in laughter. She laughed too—through the haze of her pain medication—completely convinced she had composed the great Christmas classic herself. We laughed until we cried, and then laughed some more. Eventually, I turned off the TV, tucked her back into bed, and watched her drift off with a smile still on her face.
Since that night, no one in our family can sing O Holy Night without losing it in uncontrollable laughter. Every year, I tell someone new about my mom, the “unknown composer” of one of the greatest Christmas hymns of all time. And somehow, through all the chaos, the laughter, and the love, that story has become one of my very favorite holiday traditions.
