Christmas brings us great music: Everything from Handel's

Host: The snow was falling in slow, deliberate flakes — fat, lazy spirals that seemed to dance through the cold air before melting against the glow of the streetlights. The city was quieter than usual, muffled by the blanket of winter. The shops downtown gleamed with lights, garlands, and the faint hum of familiar melodies — those timeless Christmas songs that stitched every generation together, whether they wanted to be sewn or not.

Inside a small coffeehouse, fogged windows framed the warmth within. Cinnamon, roasted coffee, and the faint echo of Handel’s Messiah mingled in the air. At the far table, Jack sat with his scarf half-undone, flipping through an old vinyl sleeve he’d found at a thrift store. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands cupped around a steaming mug, her eyes full of quiet amusement.

The sound system changed tracks — from Handel’s sweeping majesty to the nostalgic croon of Bing Crosby.

Jeeny: “Alan Colmes once said, ‘Christmas brings us great music: Everything from Handel’s Messiah to White Christmas, to I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.’”
Her smile was soft, her tone full of affection. “Isn’t that wonderful, Jack? How one holiday can hold both the sacred and the silly — and somehow make them belong to each other?”

Jack: (chuckling) “Wonderful? I call it schizophrenic. One minute it’s the heavens parting for the Messiah, the next it’s some kid traumatized by seeing his mom with Santa.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “That’s what makes it human! The beauty of Christmas is that it doesn’t have to choose between the divine and the ridiculous.”

Jack: “Or maybe it just can’t make up its mind. You’ve got Handel, the angels, and centuries of theology — then Mariah Carey wailing about what she wants under the tree.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point, Jack. Christmas isn’t consistent — it’s inclusive. It’s for the devout, the lonely, the children, the cynics, the dreamers. It’s the one time of year when irony and reverence can sit at the same table and drink hot cocoa together.”

Host: Outside, the wind pressed softly against the windowpanes, carrying faint echoes of a choir from the nearby church. Jeeny tilted her head, listening — her expression glowing with nostalgia. Jack, meanwhile, leaned back in his chair, his smirk curling like smoke.

Jack: “You talk like the holiday’s a symphony. To me, it’s noise — sentimental chaos. Every store blaring the same playlist, every ad telling you happiness comes wrapped in ribbon and debt.”

Jeeny: (gently) “And yet you’re here. In a café playing Christmas music. With me.”

Jack: (pausing) “Point taken.”

Jeeny: “You can’t escape it, Jack. The songs aren’t just about the season — they’re about longing. Even the goofy ones are really love songs in disguise.”

Jack: “Longing, huh? For what — snow and sleigh bells?”

Jeeny: “No. For connection.”
She leaned forward slightly, her voice softening. “When Handel wrote the Messiah, he wasn’t just celebrating divinity — he was trying to reach the human heart. And when Irving Berlin wrote White Christmas, he was writing from exile — a Jewish man dreaming of a peace he’d never fully known. Every Christmas song is really about home. Not a place — a feeling.”

Host: Jack’s gaze dropped to the table, tracing the edge of the vinyl sleeve. The light above them flickered, catching the snow’s reflection in his grey eyes.

Jack: “So, even the silly ones mean something?”

Jeeny: “Especially the silly ones. ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus’ — it’s absurd, yes, but it’s also innocent. A child misreading love. Christmas is full of that — misunderstandings that somehow still feel warm.”

Jack: “You make sentiment sound like salvation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is.”

Host: A waiter passed by, humming “Silent Night” under his breath. The song filled the quiet like incense — soft, lingering, ancient. Jack watched him go, his smirk fading into something more contemplative.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my dad used to play O Holy Night on the piano. He wasn’t religious — but every time he played it, the house went still. Even the air seemed to listen.”
He looked up at Jeeny. “I didn’t understand why until now.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Because faith doesn’t always need belief — just attention.”

Host: The music changed again — now it was “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” slow and wistful. The lyrics hung in the air like snowflakes that refused to melt.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — that’s what Alan Colmes meant. Christmas music isn’t just a genre. It’s a mirror. It reflects the whole spectrum of us — our reverence, our absurdity, our grief, our joy.”

Jack: “So, it’s human nature set to melody.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. One carol at a time.”

Host: She took another sip of her drink, her hands trembling slightly from the warmth. Jack studied her — not with skepticism, but with the quiet attention of a man realizing how much meaning hides in ordinary things.

Jack: “You think people still listen that way? Or are we just running on autopilot — hearing without feeling?”

Jeeny: “Maybe the songs are waiting for us to remember how to feel them again.”
Her voice lowered to a near whisper. “That’s what art does, Jack. It waits. Even the overplayed songs — they’re still alive, still patient, still hoping someone hears them for the first time again.”

Host: A faint sound came from outside — a street performer singing “Joy to the World,” off-key but earnest. Jack turned toward the window, watching the man’s silhouette against the glowing snow.

Jack: (softly) “He’s terrible.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “But honest.”

Jack: “Yeah. Honest counts.”

Host: They both laughed quietly, the sound mingling with the café’s hum — a fragile harmony of irony and sincerity, as real as the falling snow.

Jeeny: “See? That’s Christmas — finding beauty in imperfection.”

Jack: “Or imperfection in beauty.”

Jeeny: “Same thing.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. Outside, the snow thickened, transforming the streets into a silent page of white. Inside, the café lights dimmed, leaving only the glow from the counter and the faint shimmer from the snow-covered world beyond.

Jeeny reached across the table, her fingers brushing Jack’s hand — not romantically, but as one human gesture of warmth in a cold night.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to believe in miracles, Jack. Just listen. They sound a lot like music.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe that’s enough.”

Host: And as the record changed once more — from Bing Crosby’s nostalgia to a triumphant chorus of Hallelujah — the world outside seemed to still.

The snow kept falling. The city breathed. Two souls sat in warmth and reflection, bound not by creed, but by song.

Host: “Alan Colmes was right. Christmas brings us great music — sacred and silly, profound and playful. Because somewhere between the ‘Messiah’ and Santa’s kiss lies the truest sound of all — the melody of being human.”

And as the night deepened, and the final notes of Hallelujah echoed through the café, it was hard to tell whether it was the music or the moment that felt divine.