In 1987 in Vermont, for midnight mass we went to the Unitarian church in the upper village. My grandmother frequently attended there because it was so much closer than the nearest Episcopal church. The church sits atop a hill next to a farmhouse and barn, and the farmer had a live Nativity scene for after the service.

The closing hymn was “O Come All Ye Faithful”—we sang the first verse and filed out into the night. In the barn there were some local kids in their parents’ bathrobes with tea towels tied around their heads, grinning. There were some sheep and a surly-looking goat. A cow chewed quietly, and the pony was adorable in its shaggy winter coat.

I was walking with my grandmother when we left the barn. It had started to snow in big clumps, and the streetlight shone pink. We were on the final verse of the carol. She took my arm and we sang at the top of our lungs as we marched down the hill in the snow:

Yea, Lord, we greet thee!
Born this happy morning,
Jesus, to thee be glory given;
Word of the Father,
Now in flesh appearing:
O come let us adore him
O come let us adore him
O come let us adore him
Christ the lord

I told this story at Mimi’s memorial service, at that same Unitarian church. The minister looked so thoughtful afterward. “We haven’t done that nativity in years,” she said. “Maybe it’s time to bring it back.” I hope they did.

Arm in arm with Mimi, both of us singing at full blast, with snow falling on our faces out of the black winter sky: it was a moment of perfect joy.