I heard the bells as soon as we stepped out of the car. They confirmed that we had not, in fact, parked too far away, that the National Cathedral was close enough to walk to and be in our seats by 2 p.m. It had been an interesting trip in from the ‘burbs. One wrong turn meant we entered the city not the way I had planned, across the low-key Chain Bridge, but through the city, weaving through Rock Creek Park, trying to decode strange GPS directives.

But miraculously we arrived with 30 minutes to spare, and we spent 15 of them walking through the chill toward the cathedral, pulled by the bells and carillon, by the holiday tunes it played, by the ancient call to worship and to sing.

Once inside I reveled in the warmth and the bustle. It was a near-capacity audience in the massive church. A brass ensemble played as we took our seats, then a hush came over the crowd as the lights dimmed and the candlelight procession began. “Oh come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!” Thousands of voices lifted together in song.

Right before the concert began a young couple sat down in front of us with their baby, an adorable little boy with chubby cheeks and curly hair. I’ll admit I was apprehensive. Would he fuss? Would he distract me with his cuteness?

Neither happened. Instead, he looked up at the vaulted ceiling, at the rose window, and pointed his little index finger up to heaven. He did it over and over again, reminding us all to look, to wonder, to be amazed. My eyes filled at his gesture, at the music, at the fact that I was here in this sacred space, welcoming the season with joy and song.