I am my parents’ second favorite child. The fact that there are only two of us is only tangentially important to that ranking. Nonetheless, there is strong anecdotal evidence that I was the favorite of another generation – perhaps a wiser, more seasoned set, or perhaps merely an older one: the grandparents.
Years and years of Christmases proved their regard for me as I unwrapped toys and plush pets and all manner of surprising sweaters. And, year-after-year, my sister opened … a snowsuit. Big puffy overall paints. An enormous matching jacket, complete with faux-fur trimmed hood. All in exciting colors like cool gray and tan. Lucky for the grandparents, she grew into a new size every year.
Maybe it was the delight I took in grandma’s specialty: wheel-shaped pasta with meat chunks and runny sauce. Perhaps it was the interest I took in grandpa’s weird hobbies – from painting slates with mallards to collecting hundreds of teddy bears. Perhaps it was merely that I thought the multitude of housecoats my grandmother lived in were glamorous and intriguing. Perhaps I simply had the benefit of being the first girl – a welcome, if petulant, relief from their rowdy grandson.
But more holiday triumphs were to come, long after my sister was trusted in the snow in less-than-fully-waterproof-wear.
The first Sunday school in December was more well-attended than most. Our core of five mismatched teens whose parents insisted on weekly church attendance was supplemented by Beth, an absurdly tall independent type who I would later recognize was an early devotee to J Crew. Lisa, the pretty daughter of indulgent parents who wouldn’t even really look at the rest of us. Brett, a would-be bully without quite the muscles to pull it off. And, others… none of whom had quite learned how to turn the conversation from “why Christians are persecuted every day in school” to something more interesting about family life. They simply sat uncomfortably in the way of people who aren’t sure how seriously to take the seeming fervor of their companions and waited…
Waited for the casting call.
***
In a nearby barn, at 7 o’clock on Christmas eve, all the church families and friends and relatives piled out of wood-paneled station wagons, Honda accords and Ford pickup trucks for the Christmas Eve service. Their path lit by candles in waxed paper bags, the dads led families bundled almost beyond recognition to itchy pews of hay. By 7:05, the barn was packed almost to warmth with legs dangling down from the lofts and worshippers standing as far back as the stalls.
At the very front of it all was the live nativity.
With a real donkey!
And, Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, Wise Men, shepherds and, of course, The Angels. Clad in discarded off-white choir robes, topped with a circle of silver tinsel, the three angels were the most beautiful part of the nativity – all hope and innocence and wisdom.
And, ever year, I insisted on being once of them. An angel. The very top of the nativity – the beautiful angels stood on hay bales behind the scruffy shepherds and the gaudy wise men.
As the shivering crowd sang their Christmas carols, glad to stand up for the chance to stomp feeling back into their feet, the live nativity gathered in a half circle around the minister, receiving all of the Christmas cheer.
Looking back, I was merely a teenager with zits and frizzy hair and two sweaters, longjohns and acid washed jeans tucked bulkily under a tattered white robe. But, in the moment, I was as happy as I could be.
And, at the end of the night, when the men started pushing and the tractors circled around to budge the family sleighs from the muddy fields, all would witness that my whining was a little less than usual, that my caustic comments were fewer, that my scowls were shallower … all in deference to the glow of the my shiny silver halo. Or, by being the center of attention in my own mind.
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