Your story feels like standing in a doorway that only memory can open. The way you described the score tucked with old programs and envelopes… that hit me. That’s love that didn’t disappear, it just changed shape. Some friendships don’t end loudly—they fade gently, and that can hurt in a deeper, more confusing way. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. We do the best we can with the emotional tools we have at the time.
What you kept wasn’t just music, it was her, and who you were together. The awkward singing, the quiet understanding, the shared joy—those moments mattered. They still matter. And I think it’s beautiful that the ritual remains, that every year you show up with your score and your offering, carrying both gratitude and grief in the same hands.
I love imagining her somewhere too, maybe opening her own worn copy, smiling at the memory of you, of that cold night, of the way the music wrapped you both up. Some bonds don’t need contact to remain real. They live in remembrance, in ritual, in song.
This was written from the heart. And it landed there.
I sang the Christmas Oratorio as a soprano. It was the first hobby I took up post toddlers consuming my life. My favorite part is the huge drum at the beginning. Jauchzet! Frohlocket!
My best friend at the U of IA sang this every Christmas as a member of the college chorus. She had an operatic voice and also was requested to sing at a mutual friend's wedding.
Sadly, we parted ways after a 60 year friendship. Many of these old relationships don't survive, especially long distance.
I'm happy to hear this music is still being celebrated.....
I hear you. I really do.
Your story feels like standing in a doorway that only memory can open. The way you described the score tucked with old programs and envelopes… that hit me. That’s love that didn’t disappear, it just changed shape. Some friendships don’t end loudly—they fade gently, and that can hurt in a deeper, more confusing way. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. We do the best we can with the emotional tools we have at the time.
What you kept wasn’t just music, it was her, and who you were together. The awkward singing, the quiet understanding, the shared joy—those moments mattered. They still matter. And I think it’s beautiful that the ritual remains, that every year you show up with your score and your offering, carrying both gratitude and grief in the same hands.
I love imagining her somewhere too, maybe opening her own worn copy, smiling at the memory of you, of that cold night, of the way the music wrapped you both up. Some bonds don’t need contact to remain real. They live in remembrance, in ritual, in song.
This was written from the heart. And it landed there.
Thank you so much for the mention - this was a wonderful read x
I sang the Christmas Oratorio as a soprano. It was the first hobby I took up post toddlers consuming my life. My favorite part is the huge drum at the beginning. Jauchzet! Frohlocket!
My best friend at the U of IA sang this every Christmas as a member of the college chorus. She had an operatic voice and also was requested to sing at a mutual friend's wedding.
Sadly, we parted ways after a 60 year friendship. Many of these old relationships don't survive, especially long distance.
I'm happy to hear this music is still being celebrated.....