Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (23 page)

BY RITA H. STRONG

E
very first grader in the parochial school I attended back in the '30s, was in the Christmas pageant. I was chosen to be one of the many angels — a kitchen one at that. There were shepherds, Wise Men, and Mary and Joseph, as well as herald angels. A baby doll was going to be Jesus.

My mother trimmed my flowing pink angel gown with gold rickrack around the bottom and at the elbow-length sleeves. The other angels wore white gowns, also trimmed in gold. Our teacher had shredded white crepe paper for feathers and glued it on cardboard wings. Halos were embroidery hoops, wrapped with gold tinsel rope. The little broom I was to use had the same glittering rope wrapped around the handle. Everyone had a part in the play. I got to be the Sweeping Angel.

The night before the pageant, Mother put my poker-straight brown hair in rags. I had fat sausage curls the next morning and felt and looked my best!

I still recall exactly how it all was to take place …

When the curtain rose, I would be sweeping bits of hay on the floor near the Holy Family, just as they are seen on Christmas cards. The shepherds, led by the other angels, would sing, “Where are we going? Where are we going?” to the tune of “Frere Jacques.” The angels accompanying them would answer, “To the stable, to the stable. You're going to see Jesus! You're going to see Jesus!” Then everybody would join in and we'd all sing, “He is born! He is born!”At that point, a shepherd would rap at the imitation stable door. As I hurried across the stage with my broom, I would call twice, “Who is there?” and then wait for the answer. When I heard the shepherd call out, “Shepherds,” I would open the door and say, “Come in!”

At that point, Mary would pick up the Baby Jesus doll and ask, “Have you come to see our baby?” Joseph would say, “His name is Jesus.” All together, we would sing, “Shepherds, what did you see?” Then the Wise Men would come with their gifts. One would say, “I bring gold,” the second one would say, “I bring frankincense,” and the third would say, “I bring myrrh.” As Mary lay the baby down, she would say, “We have had so much company, Jesus is sleepy.” Then we'd all sing a Christmas lullaby and another carol.

After that, the play would be over.

But … the stable door stuck when I tried to open it. The shepherd, knowing it was his cue to step into the stable, pulled on it from the opposite side. Feeling me tug on the door, he let go. The door opened with a WHOO SH! It tottered this way and that, and finally toppled with a CRASH. I jumped out of the way in time and fell down, landing on my broom. My halo flew off and dropped into my lap. Afraid I had ruined the play, my bottom lip quivered, tears imminent. But when I realized that everyone was laughing, I laughed too.

Our teacher, watching our antics from backstage, quickly remedied the problem by sending one of the eighth-grade boys onto the stage to remove the offending door. While the door was being taken care of, I stood up and brushed myself off. As soon as I could, I located my halo and plopped it back on my head. Then, with a giggle, I picked up my broom and said to the shepherd, whom I could clearly see waiting for his cue to enter, “Come in.”

Thankfully, the play continued with no more surprises.

When the play was over and the curtain had come down, the audience clapped and clapped. Even though this play had been seen many times before, the audience was heard to say they felt this time they had seen the best performers — especially the little Sweeping Angel who fell.

BY MATTHIAS L. NISKA

C
hristmas is a big deal at Concordia College, my alma mater. Each December, the quaint little campus, nestled in the heart of residential Moorhead, amid the prairies of northwestern Minnesota, comes alive with holiday festivities — most of them stemming from the school's Scandinavian Lutheran heritage.

At the heart of this celebration, is the Concordia Christmas Concert, a tradition eighty years strong, in which nearly 500 student musicians — five choirs, a handbell ensemble, and a full symphony orchestra — tell the Christmas story with sacred music, old and new, enveloped by a dynamically lit, hand-painted, 150-foot-wide mural backdrop. More than 20,000 people a year flock to sold-out performances in Moorhead and at Orchestra Hall in Minneapolis, and thousands more are exposed to the concert through nationwide radio and television broadcasts. This grand tradition, which has been called Concordia's “Christmas Gift to the Midwest,” is truly an impressive vehicle for community outreach. I was lucky enough to take part in this tradition for four years, and some of my most treasured memories of college come from participating in these concerts.

But not all gifts come in such large packages.

The week after the Christmas Concert during my junior year, our choir director, Dr. René Clausen, suggested that we take time out of our hectic end-of-the-semester schedules and visit a nearby nursing home to do some caroling. Even though final exams loomed just around the corner, more than half the choir took him up on his suggestion. We rehearsed for a few minutes in the choir room beforehand, learning the harmony parts to a dozen or so well-known carols, and then bundled up in our coats, hats, and gloves, and walked the few blocks to the Eventide Lutheran Home, where a perky staff member greeted us at the door.

“You're the folks from Concordia!” she said with a broad smile. “Come right in. They're waiting for you!”

She showed us to the cafeteria, a spacious open room whose off-white walls were crowded with handmade, childish decorations. A small, neatly furnished Christmas tree stood in one corner, next to a rickety upright piano. Seated all around the room, on benches and chairs and in wheelchairs, a sizable contingent of residents waited eagerly for the concert to commence.

“It's a pleasure to be here tonight, to share with you some of the best-loved carols of the season,” said Dr. Clausen. “Feel free to join in if you like.” With that, we began to sing.

The residents listened intently at first, their white heads bobbing in approval, their lined faces wearing expressions of cheerful nostalgia. Despite Dr. Clausen's invitation, they didn't join in at first, either because they wanted to sit back and enjoy the sonority of our well-blended voices, or out of a sense of good old-fashioned Midwestern reticence. But after three or four songs, we began to hear a few stray voices singing along, and soon nearly everyone was taking part.

It was heartwarming to see not only the joy these seniors took from the familiar music, but also how nimbly their minds recalled the melodies and lyrics they had learned as young children. Many of them probably had problems with their memories, but they knew their Christmas carols.

After about forty-five minutes, it was time for us to go. We had to get back to preparing for final exams, and the nursing home staff would be serving dinner soon. As we left, we took time to mingle with the residents, who told us how much they appreciated our music. Several said they had sung in choirs when they were younger, and a few of them were even Concordia graduates.

The choir members gradually dispersed and headed back to campus. I left the cafeteria with a few of my friends, planning to eat dinner with them before returning to my apartment to hit the books. As we sauntered down the shiny, antiseptic-scented corridor, chatting quietly amongst ourselves, a nursing assistant stepped out of one of the rooms and beckoned to us.

“Myra here was wondering if you could sing her a song,” the middle-aged nursing assistant said as she led us into the room. “She heard the music coming from the cafeteria, but she told me she'd really like to see you kids sing in person.”

Peering into the dim lamplight, I saw Myra lying prone on a partially reclined hospital bed, sparse wisps of silver hair framing her deeply wrinkled face, an oxygen mask strapped over her nose and mouth. She turned her head as we entered, and welcomed us with a feeble, toothless little grin. Clearly, she wasn't in any shape to attend events in the cafeteria with the other residents, but she was every bit as entitled to enjoy Christmas music as they were.

“Of course we can,” my friend Joe said, glancing at the rest of us for approval. We all nodded without hesitation.

“In fact,” I said, realizing that my three colleagues were a soprano, an alto, and a tenor, “we just happen to have all four parts for an SATB quartet.”

“Do you think you could sing ‘Silent Night'?” the nursing assistant asked, her voice still hushed. “I think Myra would really like that.”

“We'd love to,” Andrea said.

Joe blew a C on his pitch pipe, and we began to sing. The simple chords of the beloved old Austrian carol seemed to fill the cramped room, and Myra's worn face shone with wonder and gratitude. As we sounded the last note and then stood still for a moment of reverent, introspective silence, I noticed her eyes were glistening with tears.

“Thank you, children. That was beautiful,” she rasped in a voice that was almost inaudible. “It's so moving to hear young people sing. I have a granddaughter about your age, and she sometimes comes here and sings to me.”

We left Myra's room a few minutes later and made our way toward the main entrance.

“You know something, guys?” I said, turning to my classmates, “It's so easy to live out our daily routine in our safe little college bubble, never wandering too far outside our comfort zone. But it sure feels good to get out and connect with people in the community every once in a while, doesn't it?”

Andrea nodded. “Especially at this time of year.”

At the door, we zipped up our parkas, slipped on our mittens, and stepped into the icy December landscape. We walked in silence for a while, each lost in our own thoughts. Then Joe said, “I'm glad we got the chance to sing for Myra. It was sort of like our little Christmas gift to her.”

I smiled behind my gray woolen neck scarf. “And it didn't even cost us a dime.”

BY CARRILLEE COLLINS BURKE

“A
miracle is only a prayer away,” the minister said. It was Christmas Eve, 1962, and one of the lowest points in my life. I would soon be divorced, money was tight, and I was alone with Cindy, my precious thirteen-month-old daughter. If anyone needed a miracle, I certainly did.

Going to the Christmas Eve candlelight service was my way of starting a vow I'd made earlier. I took Cindy with me as promised, and let the church nursery babysit her. While the minister spoke, my mind slowly began to replace his hum of words with memories of the last few months.

After eight years of marriage, my husband had fallen in love with someone else. He asked me for a divorce. Unable to afford payments, I'd been forced to give up our house and move into a small apartment. The divorce would be final on December 28.

I sighed and sank back against the hard wooden pew and thought about all my problems. During the week, Cindy was cared for by my sister, who lived several miles away. This meant I only had her with me on the weekends. The court did not approve of this arrangement, so my employer had graciously granted me two weeks leave of absence to get my chaotic life in order.

The congregation stood and began singing the first verse of “Silent Night.” I hurriedly stood, opened my song book, and mumbled the words, but my mind left the music and slipped back to three nights earlier, when the night was not silent. Wind and snow had pounded against the side of my apartment building, cooling my bedroom. For hours, I paced the floor, listening to the wind, thinking about my situation, and crying. Finally, when I could no longer tolerate my misery I gave up in despair, slumped to the floor next to my bed, and in the darkness, begged God to help me.

“I need your help, God. I know I don't talk to You much, but I will change. I promise. I will go to church every chance I can and take Cindy with me. If You could just give me a hint as to what I should do or help me in any way, God, I'll be forever grateful.”

I sat on the floor for a long time, waiting for some sign from Him. I knew God wouldn't answer my prayer immediately, but I needed assurance that He'd heard me. It wasn't my custom to ask for help from anyone, much less God. But suddenly, the wind stilled and the room grew warmer. I put my head back against the bed and in a whisper added, “Please, God.” Then, I crawled between the cold white sheets and slept the most restful sleep I'd had in weeks.

The children's choir woke me from my thoughts. I listened as they sang. Their little arms spread wide reminded me of the yellowed antique angel that graced my treetop each year. And once again, I realized that on Christmas Day my little angel and I would be alone.

Earlier, I had purchased a cheap little lopsided tree from the Boy Scout lot on the corner and dragged it home. A couple strings of blinking lights and a lot of silver icicles would hopefully disguise its imperfections.

The singing children ended the program by blowing out their candles. I had missed most of the sermon, but not the message. I picked Cindy up from the nursery and went home to decorate the tree. While I hung lights and glass balls on the tree, Cindy squeezed the foil icicles into tiny balls and laid them on limbs within her reach. She clapped her little hands and squealed with delight at her accomplishment. I hugged her and joined in her excitement.

It was ten o'clock when I heard a tap on the kitchen door. I placed Cindy in her playpen and walked into the kitchen. I didn't expect company, and the only neighbors I knew were the couple who shared my driveway. I opened the door a crack.

“Are you Carrie Linhart?” asked a lady with a countenance as cheery looking as her voice sounded.

“Yes,” I said, hesitantly.
How did this lady know me?

“Hello, then,” she said with a giggle. “Let me introduce myself. I'm Sara O'Connor. I live right back there with my family of three teens and a husband.” She pointed to a house whose backyard joined the apartment complex lawn. She pulled her red wool scarf tighter around her head for protection from the snow that was now coming down in lumps. Her black coat was already white.

“How can I help you?” I asked.

“It's really how we can help each other,” she said. “May I come in and explain?”

I opened the door wider and let her enter. “Now,” I said, giving her a puzzled look, “what can we do for each other?”

“I heard you were looking for a babysitter. Is that true?”

“Yes, I am, but …”

“Good! I'm looking for a baby to sit.”

“Mrs. O'Connor, is it?” I asked.

“Call me Sara, please.”

I nodded. “Okay, Sara.” I smiled and then frowned. “I must tell you upfront that my child is a baby girl not yet potty trained. Is that a problem for you?”

“Oh, no, that's exactly what I want — a baby to care for. I'll treat her just like you do.” When I hesitated, she said, “I have references,” and handed me notes with phone numbers from other mothers she'd babysat for. “All I need is a playpen and diapers. I'll take care of the rest.”

I frowned. “I'm not sure. This is so sudden. I've been searching for someone for weeks — now you appear out of nowhere. And, I can't pay much.” I peered at her closely. “Who did you say told you about us?”

Sara looked around my tiny kitchen and then walked into the living room. Seeing the decorated tree, she walked toward it, talking over her shoulder. “Oh, I'm not sure. I just seem to remember hearing about you … maybe one of my kids.”

When she spotted Cindy in the playpen, she reached to her. Cindy literally jumped into Sara's arms. I was dumbfounded. Cindy was not a child who took to strangers easily.

Sara squeezed my baby against her wet coat and in a tearful whisper said, “Thank you, God. She is just the little, blond-haired, blue-eyed Christmas present I asked you for.” Turning to me she asked, “When can I start?”

I'd never met anyone so excited to babysit! She acted as if it was a pleasure not a job. And, somehow, I believed in her.

The next day, Cindy and I celebrated Christmas with the O'Connor family. That was the start of an ongoing friendship. Back then, they not only took care of Cindy, but me, too. I know without a doubt that the O'Connor family was my answer from God.

When I think back to that night, the minister's words ring loud and clear in my head and I have to smile. He was right — a miracle really is never more than a prayer away. As I hugged my daughter tightly, I realized something else that day. I realized the spirit of Christmas was not all parties and gifts. The real miracle lived in the soul of a small child.