Stranger in the Manger

"What, another pageant?" my daughter Katherine moaned. This would be our second of three. In those days I was church hopping. Like Goldilocks sampling bowls of porridge, I was trying to find one that was just right.

The previous Saturday, we had dressed my son Will up as a shepherd for a non-speaking role in the pageant at the Peru Church, a town next to our village of Landgrove. Attired in a raggedy, much-worn striped bathrobe with a white towel over his head tied with a bit of rope, he mostly stood at the front of the tiny church holding a homemade sign that read No Room at the Inn. Children who took regular piano lessons accompanied the chorus. One year, two sons of a friend played a duet. When the younger one missed his cue, his older brother shoved him off the bench. We grownups teared at the lilting voices, the earnest faces, the poignancy marked by the occasional scuffle; afterwards everyone shared cocoa and treats.

Will uncharacteristically kept mum about his role in the second pageant at the Londonderry Methodist Church. When I picked him up from rehearsal, I asked him what he needed for his costume.

"Nothing," he muttered.

"They provide the costume?" I asked.

"Yes."

"What are you this time, sweetie?" I asked.

"Not telling," he said, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Are you a shepherd again?" I persisted.

"No."

"Joseph?"

"No!"

"You're really not going to tell me?"

"No!"

"Okay."

He kept silent, despite bribes of candy and the opportunity to open an early present.

A bit before the pageant was to begin, Will told me and his sister that he didn't mind if we didn't come.

"What?" we exclaimed. "Of course we're coming; we wouldn't miss it."

"Oh, all right," he sighed.

After dropping him at the side door, we sat inside among other families.

"Hi," the mother of one of Will's school chums smiled, leaning over. "Will is such a good sport," she said.

"He is?" I said. "I mean, yes, he is."

Katherine poked me. "What do you think she meant?"

"I'm not sure," I answered. "I guess we'll find out."

"Maybe he's Mary." Katherine giggled.

"Of course he's not Mary," I said.

After some rustling, a troop of shepherds entered from the wings, carrying crooks and leading two tiny lambs on leashes. 

"He's not a shepherd," Katherine said.

"No."

Next came the wise men, bearing frankincense, incense and myrrh. One of the wise men tripped over his beard and titters broke out among the congregation. There were a few angels with tinseled halos,   followed by Joseph, a beleaguered six-year-old.

"Nope, not him," we said as each player entered the scene and took his or her position front and center around the wooden cradle in which nestled the baby Jesus.

"Maybe he is Mary," Katherine whispered.

There was a slight delay before Mary entered, followed by an apparently reluctant donkey. The front half of the donkey clumped along obediently behind Mary, but the rear portion dug in its hoofs. 

Katherine and I gripped each other.

"You don't think," she said.

Our shoulders shook.

"I do," I replied.