Story - I remember the day well. After years of playing piano, I had decided to try a new instrument. I stood in a music store at a local mall, looking at the acoustic folk guitars. Choosing one, along with a chipboard case and strap, I walked out with my purchase, and drove home.

I didn’t know very much about guitar, so I began simply, sounding out notes and chords I had grown familiar with on the keyboard.

I decided to write a Christmas song... quiet chords, finger-picked, simple changes... words that told the timeless story again.

Time has passed, of course. The guitar eventually wound up sitting in the corner, and was sold to a student. Other guitars came along, as well as synthesizers, and computers. And lots of new instruments found their way into my collection.

But the song lived on. Friends began singing it. Krista, a student and friend, sang this version (at the young age of 13). Thank you, Krista.

In quiet, little Bethlehem

A little Baby lay

And none who saw Him lying there

Will e’er forget that day

When round his little manger bed

Remembering what the angel said

They gazed in quiet wonder at

The Savior of the world

And every year at Christmas time

In every town on earth

The ones who know His healing touch

Still wonder at His birth

And every year the wonder grows

The King of Kings in swaddling clothes

A virgin mother holds her Child

The Savior of the world

And every year the wonder grows

The King of Kings in swaddling clothes

A virgin mother holds her Child

The Savior of the world

Story - The year was 1991. After working that summer on a children’s musical theater project, I was back in our rehearsal location on the day costumes were being returned. One of the moms walked up and asked if I would consider being the youth choir director in this particular local church.  It was the beginning of a new chapter.

There was some synthesizer equipment in my room, and I remember sitting down at the keyboard, dialing in interesting sounds, and experimenting. It seemed like a good idea to write some Christmas songs for the youth with whom I might soon be working.

Six new songs came, and I duplicated them (on cassette tapes) so the kids could learn them. One of those songs was “Mary Tucked Him In.”

The original version had a different track.  This track was recorded in 2010 using GarageBand. I asked my friend, Tasha, to sing it.

In November, 2011, I went over to Bill and Tasha’s home. We turned off the refrigerator, and Tasha recorded the vocals in the kitchen.

Once in Bethlehem

Back of the inn

God wore swaddling clothes

Mary tucked Him in

Hear that tiny Child

Crying in the night

Mary holds Him now

Sings a lullaby

Angels watching Him

From the sky

Saw His tiny form

Heard His tiny cry

Night of mystery

Night of love and joy

Who can comprehend

God, a little Boy

Once in Bethlehem

Back of the inn

God wore swaddling clothes

Mary tucked Him in

Mary tucked Him in

Please think of this as a gift to be shared. If you know someone who might enjoy hearing this song, feel free to send them the link to this page. If you have already downloaded the song, you may email them the mp3 directly.

Please think of this as a gift to be shared. If you know someone who might enjoy hearing this song, feel free to send them the link to this page. If you have already downloaded the song, you may email them the mp3 directly.

Many years ago, I sat down one day at the computer, and typed in these thoughts, written in a kind of “old-world style,” to try and explain the sense I had in my heart that some music is better communicated when it is simply shared.

To friends near and far,

          in sunny meadows or in frosty woodlands,

                    whether dawn or sunset,

     from these Silver Shores,

               on wings of light,

                    these songs are yours.

Some songs were made to sell, and some were made to give. Some know a time, some have a place, some have a way. Each one unique, each one a story still untold to someone else’s ears, to someone’s heart somewhere. And so they shine like stars across the night in constellations rare, and send their light in bursts of beauty here and there - these songs, these messengers through time.

And could it be, some song would come to me, and find my heart a birthplace for a while, and ride the fire’s heat, where words are melted and reborn, and feel the anvil’s beat? ‘Tis so, and yet I do not know why these should flow from out the workshop of my mind, my heart, and onward go, winding their distant journey through town or square, or lodging in a wayside inn somewhere.

These songs are yours. You may not find them all a thing of beauty or of cheer. ‘Tis up to some to hit the mark, while others miss and travel by, as though they hadn’t looked aside at all, swift arrows reaching someone else’s care. Then do not grasp or hold them tight, but let them move and shimmer in their light, and pass through time on moments of surprise, and light the sparkle in the children’s eyes, or find the crying stranger in the night.

These songs are yours, but pass them on for free. Permission has been granted for all time. No hand can hold them back, not yours, nor mine, but ours to watch them go, like sentinels of treasure rich with wonder, ambassadors of some enchanted splendor that only can be known when stars of light, like unexpected flashes in the night, reach out in love to find the run-down landscapes of the mind.

In stores, in malls, in shops across the street, some songs are quite at home.  They know the sounds in the market square and hear the buyer’s footsteps marching, marching to the beat. But others ride the sun at dawn, and melt the frost that’s on the lawn, and dance on windblown leaves.

Where go the songs? On trails I do not know, to worlds I cannot understand, to lands I cannot go. To teach a child to sing perchance, or maybe someone’s heart to dance, or someone else to live. I only know I’ve let them go. Some songs were made to give.

Stephen Mugglin