The song itself is believed to be over four hundred years old, though it’s new to Joan when she first hears Julie Andrews’ voice ringing over the sandy wash of the LP. Firestone presents Your Favorite Christmas Music, volume 4. The record sleeve is done up to look like a Christmas gift with an elaborate red bow, mistletoe sprouting from the middle as if it had grown there. And the song feels like a gift as she cradles her fussy one-year-old boy to her chest and sways to the lullaby. Rock you, rock you, rock you. The melody settles somewhere deep inside her. She hums along and pads through the quiet house by the light of the tree.
The carol was first published in a Czech anthology in 1920 under the name “Hajej, nynej.” By 1967, when Joan’s oldest son brings home the music for his school Christmas program, it is titled “The Rocking Carol.” Joan sits at the piano with him, practicing the simple three-part harmonies. She holds the soprano line against her son’s steady alto. After a while, she calls her husband over to pick up the tenor part. It’s like tinsel, the way their voices drape across the room, falling and rising with the melody. When the final notes fade away, Joan grins and nudges her husband’s shoulder. “We should take this show on the road,” she says.
“The Rocking Carol” was translated into English in 1928. It was published in The Oxford Book of Carols and sung widely in churches across England. But to Joan’s neighbors in Boulder, Colorado, the song is a curiosity. They peer out into the cold, and the yellow light from their houses illuminates the patch of snow where Joan stands, her toddler in her arms, her husband by her side, and her five dark-haired boys stacked around her like organ pipes. Over the quiet blanket of snow, they sing a gentle promise: Little Jesus, sweetly sleep. Do not stir. We will lend you a coat of fur. Their notes hang in the air with the fog of their breath, mingling into a single rising mist of sound. Afterwards, Joan pulls her boys in close, warming their noses with her breath, and says, “Let’s do this every year.”
Since its publication, some hymnal editors have expressed dissatisfaction at the song’s English translation. The last line, in particular, has met with a good deal of criticism. But over the years, that last line—darling, darling little man—becomes Joan’s favorite. Every Christmas, Joan notices how tall her boys are growing. How their clear soprano voices crack and drop into the bass clef. One by one, her sons cast out to explore the other harmonies. They leave on missions and to start their own families. But every year she holds the melody, and when her boys return to take up the song, she hugs them close and breathes them in. And whenever they reach that final refrain, Joan is carried back to a quiet December night, rocking her baby boy in the faint glow of the bubble lights. She remembers cradling every one of them in her arms, the way they each had a different cry but the same steely blue eyes. Darling, darling little man.
Critics say that “The Rocking Carol” lacks historical and biblical accuracy, and that the theological elements of the song are scarce, at best. Other Christmas songs refer to Jesus by his divine paternal lineage: “Newborn King” or “Holy Infant.” But what Joan has always loved most about “The Rocking Carol” is that it’s a mother’s song. Mary’s little baby, sleep. Sung by a woman weary and elated from the travails of childbirth. Sung to a bleary-eyed infant stretching his fingers in the cool night air for the first time. The lullaby is a vine that grows through her, through time, and every mother’s heart is both a root and a branch. She holds fast to that nurturing strength when she receives her first cancer diagnosis. It steadies her when it becomes difficult to walk. It nourishes her when she can’t keep down a meal. But a song can only do so much, and the cancer spreads, blood, bone, brain. By December, she doesn’t recognize herself. There is no room for anything but cancer. Her sons help her out of bed. They bring her food that she doesn’t want to eat. One day, they sit her on the couch facing the tiny rainbow lights of the Christmas tree, and out of the darkness she feels a surge of strength. The melody flows up through her. She hears herself start the second verse: Mary’s little baby, sleep.
That night, at her urging, the whole family piles into the van and drives through the neighborhood. They stop at each house, pulling the car as close to the sidewalk as possible. Joan sits in the back seat, too weak to get out, and opens the sliding door with a button. Her family clusters on either side of the open door. And they sing. We will rock you, rock you, rock you, rocking to this lullaby. We will serve you all we can, darling, darling little man.
The next ten days will go by fast for Joan—carefully tying elaborate ribbons on Christmas gifts and reading to her grandkids by the light of the tree. But they’ll also move slowly as the crisp lines of reality blur into a thick haze. On day eight, she won’t be able to get out of bed. On day nine, her sons will gather around her and sing her favorite Christmas songs. They’ll reminisce about childhood, and they’ll laugh through their tears. On day ten, she won’t wake up.
But for now, they carol until the neighbors stop opening their doors. When they get home, Joan sinks back into her pillow and sleeps. And she feels cradled in the arms of every mother as they hold her in the December dark. Rock you, rock you, rock you.
This piece was published in 2024 as part of the Holiday Lit Blitz by the Mormon Lit Lab. Sign up for our newsletter for future updates.
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