The Amateur Hour Christmas Pageant

My son knew he’d finally been allowed a “rite of passage” when he no longer had to play “Joseph” in the annual neighborhood Christmas play. He was sprouting a few whiskers and his voice changing when he finally shed his bathrobe costume. Instead, he showed off his newly-acquired guitar-playing skills as he helped lead the small audience of family and neighbors in singing a few Christmas carols.

Up through the junior high years, my creative neighbor Teri planned a “Jesus Birthday Party,” with our children re-enacting the nativity. As the only boy of the bunch, my son was pre-cast as Joseph, with the girls doing Mary, various angels, shepherds, and other parts, with a doll in a homemade feed trough. After singing, we enjoyed a dessert.

Now, all those kids are out of college, most married, and one (the ex-Joseph) with a son of his own, named Josiah. The other day, when we put four-month-old Josiah on a rocking/rolling horse found in a thrift store, I thought how it won’t be long before he’s ready for his first “nativity story” education.

 

Before my neighbor’s nativity parties began, we’d already started with a hands-on crèche with plastic figures that our kids could touch and move about. Admittedly, telling the story was simple at first. I had a nursery cloth book with this stunning plot line: “Mary” (turn the page). “Angel” (turn the page).  You get the idea.

Then came a little sister, and by pre-school years, we played out the nativity. Dad was the hee-hawing donkey carrying “Mary.” Our son was faithful old Joseph.  And Mom was the angel in the living room, and the innkeeper saying “no room” behind our bedroom door.  In addition, every year the crèche was put at kid-level. My son, who’d grow up to be an engineer, would organize all the people on one side and all the animals on the other.  His sister was a bit more freestyle.  She was our “dolly” girl, and in the midst of her imaginary stories would have her fashion doll drive up in a pink corvette to pay a courtesy call on the holy family.

We still have the crèche under our Christmas tree.  Josiah’s too young to understand it this year, but maybe next year we can find another book with that gripping plot line: “Mary” (turn the page). “Joseph” (turn the page). “Baby Jesus.”

In a sense, we’ve already turned the page, passing on the ageless story to our descendants, and that’s a good thing.  And maybe the real-life now-grandpa-donkey will offer his back and a good-hearted hee-haw.  I can hardly wait.