By Tom Ehrich

I listened to my first Christmas song today. Maybe it will be my last. It was that perfect.

From college, my youngest sent me this YouTube link: It shows one of my favorite ensembles, Celtic Woman, singing "O Holy Night" at a castle in Ireland.

Beautifully sung, beautifully staged, beautifully recorded. No shock, no schlock, no massive orchestration. Just a harp, a solo violin, a few instruments, and four voices carrying the melody from soft, up a mountain, and back to soft.

What more need be said? To a world lost in "sin and error," God chose to send a Son so that human souls might know their "worth."

It started soft, in a gentle nudge to Mary. Maybe it got loud when Mary gave birth or when angels sang. But the holiness didn't shine in volume of sound or drama of spectacle. It shone in a "new and glorious morn" that bade the lost and fearful, "Fall on your knees." I imagine that bidding as a gentle beseeching.

The next birth sounds I hope to hear are telephone calls from my two oldest sons saying, "Unto us a son is given," or if the other daughter-in-law goes first, "Unto us a daughter is given."

Maybe that will be enough. Celtic Woman singing of a birth, sons announcing births, and everything in my world changing.