December 15, 2025 • 9 mins
On this episode of Our American Stories, when Kent was just nine years old, he had a very special experience that, many years later, he still can’t seem to shake. Here’s Kent with his story entitled “To Hear the Angels Sing.”
Support the show (https://www.ouramericanstories.com/donate)
See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:10):
And we're back with our American stories and with another
Christmas story for our Christmas Month where we celebrate the
season well all month long. Up next, we have a
listener's story from Kent Hansen. When Kent was just nine
years old, he had a very special experience that many
years later he can't seem to shake. Here's Kent with
(00:33):
his story entitled to Hear the Angels Sing.
Speaker 2 (00:40):
We do our Christmas shopping late this December. My parents' work, church,
school programs, and family obligations conspire to keep us away
from the stores of downtown Santa Cruz until the night
before Christmas Eve. It is the one time a year
when I see my dad shop for anything but groceries.
(01:02):
After parking by the JC Penny store, we go our
separate ways for a couple of hours. Mom hands me
a five dollars bill. By carefully allocating this fortune, I
will buy small presents from my mom, dad, brothers, and sister.
My trade route is the same as always, Woolworth's stationary store,
(01:24):
music store, and the bookstore. In the back seat on
the way home, I press my face against the window
to look at the lights, the trees, and the dark
empty fields whose fences and contours I know by heart.
The full moon lights up the clear night, a rarity
on the coast of central California. The talk in the
(01:46):
heater warmed car is a family and friends. Snatches of
carols and songs are sung. My brother Terry, home from
boarding school, tells stories of his adventures there. Large and
small fit together in that moment, like the pieces of
one of those Chinese block puzzles. Yet the full moon,
(02:07):
bright but distant overhead, whispers to me, and the secrecy
of my heart stirring a longing ache that says you
are kent. There are places beyond where only you can go,
and only you can know. Dad stops at a Christmas
tree lot. There are only a few misshapen trees huddled
(02:28):
in a corner this close to Christmas. Dad holds them
out one by one and spins them around for Mom
to inspect. Her criterion is the opportunity for concealment. This
one will be okay if we put the side missing
branches in the corner as our final judgment. A few
crumpled dollar bills change hands and we are on our
(02:50):
way again. It is late around nine thirty pm when
we roll up the pothole dirt road and crunch into
the gravel driveway alongside our white house on the hill,
surrounded by pastures and fields. Mom and brother gather up
their bags and hurry inside for wrapping and hiding. Dad
(03:10):
pulls the fir tree out of the trunk and carries
it into the house. In the bustle, I slip away
to the end of the driveway and around the tall
privet hedge that shelters the north side of the yard.
The wind off the ocean is fresh and rising. It
spins the tin blades of the windmill atop the old
(03:31):
weathered tank house with a steady rhythm of clicks and creeks.
Reaching inside the darkened barn door, I brush away spider web,
yuck and fumble for the sugar cubes in a box
on a shelf. I pop one, sharp edged and sweet
inside my mouth, and take three more to the gate,
where my Welsh pony Peanuts, stands in silence. I call
(03:56):
his name and hold out a cube through the slats.
He softly whickers in recognition. His warm breath grazes my palm.
His white blaze stands out across his nose as he
brings his head up over the gate, looking for more sugar.
I feed the pony one cube at a time. I
stroke his muzzle and scratch his ears. Before walking back
(04:18):
out to the driveway, I squint to look at the
moon through the branches and needles of the big pine
in the corner of our yard. Stepping out in the
middle of the road, I raise my arms to evoke
shadow angel wings in the moonlight. Then I stand still
to orient myself to the night. Above the wind, I
(04:39):
can hear the rolling boom of the breakers in Moterey Bay,
about a mile away to the south and west. Turning
to the northeast, I can see the swelling rise of
Loma Priata, which means dark hill in Spanish. It dominates
the ridge line of the Santa Cruz Mountains. I keep
turning to take in this truth, I tell myself. All
(05:01):
of these, the hills and the slews that run down
to the sea, the wind and the trees, the ocean waves,
the people behind the lights in the house, my pony,
the stars and the moon are part of me. And
yet I think, stretching out my arms wide, there are
too many wonderful things to hold and to grasp. One
(05:25):
of them is to put down another. But I want
all of this night and some and in parts stored
in my heart forever. Then I run out onto the field,
sprinting into the wind, pushing against it, trying to become
part of it. The moon is behind me, over me,
(05:45):
It's light around me. My shadow is in front of me,
and I cannot quite reach it, and cannot pass it.
I run after it anyway. When I reach the eucalyptus
windbreak on the far edge of the field, my shadow
is subsumed in the sheltered dark of the grove. I
(06:05):
draw up quickly and turn slowly in circles, gasping in
the chill air. I am alone on the edge of
mine known world, on the border between the black bulk
of the trees and the moon limbed field. The lights
of home look far away and tiny? Are they looking
(06:27):
for me? Yet? Do they care? I wonder? It's more
important right now that I be here than anywhere else.
But why it is now that I hear the angels sing.
The kill deer I've scattered during my dash across the
field pipe their shrill calls to regroup. The eucalyptus trees
(06:50):
groan and bend over to talk to each other. In
the wind, the breakers add faint percussion. My own beating
heart and breathing meld in. The sounds of creation surge
and echo around me with a deep resonance. Angel wings
are stirring, the wind moving through the night, bringing light
to the darkness, arranging the world for the pleasure of
(07:13):
the creator. The full moon silvers the night with a
shining luster in the glory and mystery of the incarnation itself.
One little, odd, curious nine year old boy who refuses
to accept things as they seem is told God is here,
(07:33):
and you know what, He really loves you. When I
finally go to bed that night and close my eyes,
the moonlight still glows, the wind still blows, and angel
songs echo with the lyric God Loves You. Kent't I
know that I will never again be afraid of the dark?
Do you say why? I have never heard such a thing?
(07:56):
So how could it be? You will never hear the
angel sing if you don't listen. They can't be heard
with ordinary ears, but only through an open heart. The
angels will never sing for you if you just stay
in the house doing busy things. If I had not
heard this for myself. I would not tell you that
(08:20):
it is so. The shepherds heard the angels first, you know.
They were out on the hills in the wind, under
the stars, watching their sheep in the night. An angel
showed up and told them good news for you. Down
in the village. This very night. A baby is born
who will change everything. The baby is God in the flesh,
(08:43):
come to save you, a God who is with you.
Then more angels poured out of the sky. You can
read this for yourself in the Gospel of Luke. But
those angels didn't leave. They are still hanging around out there.
But as I say, you'll have to go outside if
you want to hear them sing. So step outside this
(09:06):
Christmas night, look up to the sky, open up your heart,
be still and listen. Listen for the singing angels.
Speaker 1 (09:19):
And a terrific job on the production and editing by
our own Madison Derricot. And my goodness, a touch of
the poet. My shadow is ahead of me. I cannot
reach it, I cannot catch it. I try anyway, The
sounds of creation surge within me with a deep resonance.
This curious nine year old boy who refuses to accept
(09:39):
things as they seem here's God Loves you. Last, Ken says,
the angels will never sing if you stay in the
house doing busy thing. A beautiful story about all the
things that matter in life around this Christmas season. Here
on our American Stories
And we're back with our American stories and with another
Christmas story for our Christmas Month where we celebrate the
season well all month long. Up next, we have a
listener's story from Kent Hansen. When Kent was just nine
years old, he had a very special experience that many
years later he can't seem to shake. Here's Kent with
(00:33):
his story entitled to Hear the Angels Sing.
Speaker 2 (00:40):
We do our Christmas shopping late this December. My parents' work, church,
school programs, and family obligations conspire to keep us away
from the stores of downtown Santa Cruz until the night
before Christmas Eve. It is the one time a year
when I see my dad shop for anything but groceries.
(01:02):
After parking by the JC Penny store, we go our
separate ways for a couple of hours. Mom hands me
a five dollars bill. By carefully allocating this fortune, I
will buy small presents from my mom, dad, brothers, and sister.
My trade route is the same as always, Woolworth's stationary store,
(01:24):
music store, and the bookstore. In the back seat on
the way home, I press my face against the window
to look at the lights, the trees, and the dark
empty fields whose fences and contours I know by heart.
The full moon lights up the clear night, a rarity
on the coast of central California. The talk in the
(01:46):
heater warmed car is a family and friends. Snatches of
carols and songs are sung. My brother Terry, home from
boarding school, tells stories of his adventures there. Large and
small fit together in that moment, like the pieces of
one of those Chinese block puzzles. Yet the full moon,
(02:07):
bright but distant overhead, whispers to me, and the secrecy
of my heart stirring a longing ache that says you
are kent. There are places beyond where only you can go,
and only you can know. Dad stops at a Christmas
tree lot. There are only a few misshapen trees huddled
(02:28):
in a corner this close to Christmas. Dad holds them
out one by one and spins them around for Mom
to inspect. Her criterion is the opportunity for concealment. This
one will be okay if we put the side missing
branches in the corner as our final judgment. A few
crumpled dollar bills change hands and we are on our
(02:50):
way again. It is late around nine thirty pm when
we roll up the pothole dirt road and crunch into
the gravel driveway alongside our white house on the hill,
surrounded by pastures and fields. Mom and brother gather up
their bags and hurry inside for wrapping and hiding. Dad
(03:10):
pulls the fir tree out of the trunk and carries
it into the house. In the bustle, I slip away
to the end of the driveway and around the tall
privet hedge that shelters the north side of the yard.
The wind off the ocean is fresh and rising. It
spins the tin blades of the windmill atop the old
(03:31):
weathered tank house with a steady rhythm of clicks and creeks.
Reaching inside the darkened barn door, I brush away spider web,
yuck and fumble for the sugar cubes in a box
on a shelf. I pop one, sharp edged and sweet
inside my mouth, and take three more to the gate,
where my Welsh pony Peanuts, stands in silence. I call
(03:56):
his name and hold out a cube through the slats.
He softly whickers in recognition. His warm breath grazes my palm.
His white blaze stands out across his nose as he
brings his head up over the gate, looking for more sugar.
I feed the pony one cube at a time. I
stroke his muzzle and scratch his ears. Before walking back
(04:18):
out to the driveway, I squint to look at the
moon through the branches and needles of the big pine
in the corner of our yard. Stepping out in the
middle of the road, I raise my arms to evoke
shadow angel wings in the moonlight. Then I stand still
to orient myself to the night. Above the wind, I
(04:39):
can hear the rolling boom of the breakers in Moterey Bay,
about a mile away to the south and west. Turning
to the northeast, I can see the swelling rise of
Loma Priata, which means dark hill in Spanish. It dominates
the ridge line of the Santa Cruz Mountains. I keep
turning to take in this truth, I tell myself. All
(05:01):
of these, the hills and the slews that run down
to the sea, the wind and the trees, the ocean waves,
the people behind the lights in the house, my pony,
the stars and the moon are part of me. And
yet I think, stretching out my arms wide, there are
too many wonderful things to hold and to grasp. One
(05:25):
of them is to put down another. But I want
all of this night and some and in parts stored
in my heart forever. Then I run out onto the field,
sprinting into the wind, pushing against it, trying to become
part of it. The moon is behind me, over me,
(05:45):
It's light around me. My shadow is in front of me,
and I cannot quite reach it, and cannot pass it.
I run after it anyway. When I reach the eucalyptus
windbreak on the far edge of the field, my shadow
is subsumed in the sheltered dark of the grove. I
(06:05):
draw up quickly and turn slowly in circles, gasping in
the chill air. I am alone on the edge of
mine known world, on the border between the black bulk
of the trees and the moon limbed field. The lights
of home look far away and tiny? Are they looking
(06:27):
for me? Yet? Do they care? I wonder? It's more
important right now that I be here than anywhere else.
But why it is now that I hear the angels sing.
The kill deer I've scattered during my dash across the
field pipe their shrill calls to regroup. The eucalyptus trees
(06:50):
groan and bend over to talk to each other. In
the wind, the breakers add faint percussion. My own beating
heart and breathing meld in. The sounds of creation surge
and echo around me with a deep resonance. Angel wings
are stirring, the wind moving through the night, bringing light
to the darkness, arranging the world for the pleasure of
(07:13):
the creator. The full moon silvers the night with a
shining luster in the glory and mystery of the incarnation itself.
One little, odd, curious nine year old boy who refuses
to accept things as they seem is told God is here,
(07:33):
and you know what, He really loves you. When I
finally go to bed that night and close my eyes,
the moonlight still glows, the wind still blows, and angel
songs echo with the lyric God Loves You. Kent't I
know that I will never again be afraid of the dark?
Do you say why? I have never heard such a thing?
(07:56):
So how could it be? You will never hear the
angel sing if you don't listen. They can't be heard
with ordinary ears, but only through an open heart. The
angels will never sing for you if you just stay
in the house doing busy things. If I had not
heard this for myself. I would not tell you that
(08:20):
it is so. The shepherds heard the angels first, you know.
They were out on the hills in the wind, under
the stars, watching their sheep in the night. An angel
showed up and told them good news for you. Down
in the village. This very night. A baby is born
who will change everything. The baby is God in the flesh,
(08:43):
come to save you, a God who is with you.
Then more angels poured out of the sky. You can
read this for yourself in the Gospel of Luke. But
those angels didn't leave. They are still hanging around out there.
But as I say, you'll have to go outside if
you want to hear them sing. So step outside this
(09:06):
Christmas night, look up to the sky, open up your heart,
be still and listen. Listen for the singing angels.
Speaker 1 (09:19):
And a terrific job on the production and editing by
our own Madison Derricot. And my goodness, a touch of
the poet. My shadow is ahead of me. I cannot
reach it, I cannot catch it. I try anyway, The
sounds of creation surge within me with a deep resonance.
This curious nine year old boy who refuses to accept
(09:39):
things as they seem here's God Loves you. Last, Ken says,
the angels will never sing if you stay in the
house doing busy thing. A beautiful story about all the
things that matter in life around this Christmas season. Here
on our American Stories
Host
Lee Habeeb
Popular Podcasts
Stuff You Should Know
If you've ever wanted to know about champagne, satanism, the Stonewall Uprising, chaos theory, LSD, El Nino, true crime and Rosa Parks, then look no further. Josh and Chuck have you covered.
Dateline NBC
Current and classic episodes, featuring compelling true-crime mysteries, powerful documentaries and in-depth investigations. Follow now to get the latest episodes of Dateline NBC completely free, or subscribe to Dateline Premium for ad-free listening and exclusive bonus content: DatelinePremium.com
The Bobby Bones Show
Listen to 'The Bobby Bones Show' by downloading the daily full replay.