“I . . . I suppose. Why?”
“Great!” I said. “Dr. Ringle, will you please take Katrina down to the Christmas pageant? I’ll meet you backstage in ten minutes!”
“But Mo!” Katrina shouted as I ran off at a full sprint. “Wait! Mo! What are you doing?”
I didn’t have time to respond. If Katrina was going to make it on stage in time for her part, then I didn’t have a single moment to lose.
The only gift is a portion of thyself.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
S
hepherds and sheep were lining up at the side of the stage by the time I finally slipped through the back door of the cafeteria, which meant the angel scene was not far off. I didn’t see Katrina or Dr. Ringle, but I found the flock of angels loitering around a large plate of Christmas cookies and punch while they waited for their grand entrance on stage. I hurried over to join them.
“Hi guys,” I said, catching my breath.
“Hello,” said a curly haired girl whom I recognized as having hurt Katrina’s feelings on at least one prior occasion.
“You’re the bag girl’s friend, right? Have you found her?”
“Don’t call her that!” I snapped. “How would you like it if people called you things like that? She has a name. It’s Katrina.”
“Sorry,” she replied and seemed to mean it. “That wasn’t very nice, I know. Have you found Katrina? We were all really worried about her . . . really.”
“Yes, I found her,” I said. “But she’s a little nervous about going out on stage. She’s embarrassed, and I need your help to fix that.”
In as few words as I could, but with the articulation speed of Madhu, I explained to the angel chorus all about Katrina, about her sickness, about her mother, about the recent loss of her grandfather, and about how hard it is when people make fun and call her things like “the bag girl.” I told them everything I could think of. Then I showed them a stack of paper Christmas bags I had found all throughout the hospital and asked them if they would be willing to wear a bag like Katrina when they went on stage so she wouldn’t stand out in the crowd.
To my utter amazement, and as proof that miracles have not ceased, every one of the children agreed to my plan without hesitation.
With great haste we cut out eye and mouth holes in the bags. I helped some of the younger angels while the older kids did their own. Even the curly haired girl seemed genuinely happy to be putting on a bag. I was just slipping the last paper bag over a little boy’s head when I heard someone speak my name.
“Mo?” It was Katrina.
I turned around to face her. She was standing next to Dr. Ringle, who was sitting motionless in his blinking wheelchair. True to my own naivety, I had no idea why there were large tears rolling down his rosy cheeks.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Nothing. I . . . I just. . . .” I fumbled over my words, not quite sure what I should say. “You said if you weren’t the only one on stage with a bag, that you’d go out there. Well? What do you think?”
She didn’t say anything. I half expected her to turn tail and run away. I was only half right. She ran, but instead of making for the nearest exit, she darted straight toward me, nearly knocking me to the floor as she draped her arms around my neck and gave me a hug.
The moment, however, was to be short-lived.
“I think we missed our cue!” shouted one of the taller angels. I couldn’t tell which one amid all of the paper-covered faces.
All of the angels fell instantly quiet as we listened to Aaron’s voice piping through the sound system.
“And I repeat!” he boomed into the microphone, loud enough to cause static feedback in the speakers. “Suddenly there was a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men!’ And then . . . the angels came!” Aaron was stalling—hoping and pleading that the flying host of heaven would appear.
“Let’s go!” said Katrina, leading the way. Then she stopped abruptly and looked back at me. “Mo, come with us. There’s one more bag over there.”
All of the angels were waiting behind Katrina while the narrator’s voice continued to stall in the background, now sounding ever more frantic.
“If any of us is an angel, it’s you,” she begged.
I didn’t know what to say. I’d been told under no uncertain terms that I couldn’t participate, but I wanted to be part of the pageant
so
badly.
“Fine,” I said with sarcastic reluctance. “But if anyone asks, it was you who twisted my arm!”
“What’s new?” she giggled. “I was the one who broke it to begin with.”
Slipping an extra bag over my head, I rushed up to the front of the line to join Katrina, and then we all flew onto the stage. The music started as soon as we were in sight, and all of the angels began singing as we took our place in the center of the stage. I didn’t know the words, so I just mouthed and hummed along.
When Nurse Wimble saw us she nearly jumped right up to high heaven. There were a few whispers and chuckles from the audience as everyone tried to decipher why this flock of tardy angels had bags on their heads, and why the angel near the front with a cast on his arm had no wings and was wearing a red flannel shirt and jeans. I glanced only briefly at Nurse Wimble as we all shuffled into place, but that was long enough to divine that she would have more than a few biblical expressions to say to us all later.
After a few rousing Christmas carols including “Angels We Have Heard on High,” “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” and “Joy to the World,” the angels moved to a spot near the side of the stage so the final scene could proceed.
I sat watching intently as Mary held her newborn baby and sang a song I’d never heard before called “Mary’s Lullaby.” It was a beautiful tune, sung by none other than Lynn, the feisty young woman who had threatened to quit the pageant unless Katrina was allowed to participate. Her voice was a melody that rang clear and true when she sang, and I understood at once why Nurse Wimble had been so quick to give in to her demand.
When her song was finished, the fabled shepherds came to see the infant, and everyone on stage joined them in singing “Away in a Manger.” During that song Katrina reached up and grabbed hold of my arm. I think she was crying when the words of one verse said, “Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care, and fit us for Heaven to live with Thee there.” And I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I might have been crying then too as I thought about Katrina and some of the other children at the hospital who would probably see heaven long before me.
One of the final songs of the Christmas pageant was “We Three Kings.” I couldn’t help but laugh when I saw the lanky fourth wise man rumble onto the stage, his gold and purple crown hanging slightly askew on his narrow head, and his wide grin beaming from ear to ear. The song was about three wise men, not four, which is probably why Nurse Wimble had been so opposed to adding Madhu in the first place. At the end of the song, the wise men each presented their gifts as they bowed before Joseph, Mary, and the new Christ child.
The tallest of the wise men, who carried a leather pouch, was the first of the bunch to speak. “The gift I bring is gold—truly a gift fit for a king.”
Then the second wise man stepped forward and bowed. “I, too, bring a gift worthy of the Lord. Frankincense, from my home in the east.” Stepping back, he made room for the third wise man to approach the manger.
“I come from afar to see the Messiah. I bring him myrrh, the most precious gift of my country.” That particular wise man was played by a girl, but it didn’t seem to matter.
When it was Madhu’s turn to step forward and present his gift, for some reason he didn’t do anything at all. He just stood frozen in place holding the wooden box, his eyes riveted on the baby lying in the manger. The third wise man backed up a few paces and elbowed him in the ribs. Madhu jerked a little bit and snapped back from wherever his mind had wandered, but instead of approaching the manger, he turned and faced the audience.
“I, too, come from the east,” he said.
I had never heard Madhu speak so slowly. Every word came out clear and measured.
“I was born in India and do not know much of your religion. I do not know if this child is the Savior. But from what I have read he is certainly a great prophet. He will be worshipped by many as the very Son of God.”
The auditorium was deathly silent as he spoke. From where I stood huddled with the angels, I could see that Nurse Wimble was slouching in her seat, her hands completely covering her face, which was now flushed bright red.
“I have read from the Bible,” he continued, “of the things he will do and the things he will teach when he gets older. Surely this young child is destined for greatness and worthy of the world’s greatest gifts. But,” he paused, letting the word hang in the air for several seconds. “I have no such gift to bring him.”
There was a collective gasp through the room as Madhu opened up an empty box. Then he began speaking again.
“One day, this child will tell those who follow him, ‘If ye love me, keep my commandments.’ And what will he command them? ‘This is my commandment, that ye love one another, as I have loved you.’ If this is truly the Son of God, then there is no worldly gift that he needs. He does not ask for gold, or wealth, or money. He asks only that we love others. And so, that will be my gift to him. I will try harder to love everyone, regardless of who they are or what they look like.” Madhu turned slightly to the left and smiled directly at Katrina, then went on speaking. “And I will try to overlook the few things that make us different and focus instead on the many things that make us all the same.”
A single tear dropped from the corner of Madhu’s eye and trickled down his face. He turned back to the baby and set down his empty box, kneeling gracefully at the foot of the manger.
“It is a small gift, I know, but it is the only thing I have to offer Christ.”
A
ARON STOOD
at the front of the stage holding his script at his side, unsure of how best to continue following Madhu’s impromptu sermon. No one in the audience spoke. Finally my brother inched closer to the microphone, his mind racing to find something—anything—to say.
“Uhh. . . ,” he started. “And so we see that the wise men all brought different gifts to baby Jesus. And . . . some wise men were . . . uhhmmm . . . wiser than others.”
Just then I felt a tug on my arm. Katrina was taking a step forward and was pulling me with her.
“What are you doing?” I whispered from beneath my bag. She didn’t say anything but just kept walking across the stage toward the manger with me in tow.
Aaron saw us walking and tried to fill in a narration as we went. “And then suddenly, two wayward angels stepped forward from heaven to visit the Christ child.”
The audience laughed hysterically at that, but Nurse Wimble had had quite enough. She shot up out of her chair and screamed, “What do you angels think you’re doing? This is not what we practiced!”
“And God rebuked his angels and told them to return to heaven at once,” said Aaron over the sound system.
Again Nurse Wimble was not as amused as everyone else. She placed her hands firmly on her hips and gave my brother a look that warned of severe consequences unless he stopped talking immediately.
Katrina, however, was undeterred. As the audience settled down she quietly pulled me over to the manger. When she got there, she stood staring thoughtfully down at Jesus. Her green eyes were fixed on the doll lying in the hay, bound tightly in a hospital blanket. Then, without a word, she turned and pulled the mask from off my head. It was, admittedly, refreshing to have it gone, but I didn’t understand why she had done it or what she was up to. Before I could puzzle it out on my own, she knelt down, and in the hushed silence that now gripped everyone watching, Katrina slowly lifted her trembling hands to her own head and peeled off the bag that had hidden her face for so many months.
With the spotlight shining on us both, there was no hiding the physical reality of Katrina’s appearance from anyone in the great room. Most of her hair was gone, with patches of stubble scattered here and there across her otherwise bald scalp. The brain tumor and the associated treatments had left her skin withered and cracked, with open lesions visible just above her forehead and thick scars from multiple surgeries extending from the crown of her head to the nape of her neck. The shape of her head was slightly abnormal, bulging on one side and sunken on the other. Sections of her misshapen scalp had been grafted together with not quite matching colors of skin to cover up the invasiveness of the operations she had endured. And perhaps most notable of all was a relatively new development: a large, lumpy swelling of tissue protruding from an area high above her left ear and ending down in the softness of her delicate cheek.
Nobody on the stage or in the audience made so much as a whisper as Katrina carefully folded the white bag in at the corners, then over again in half to make it smaller, and placed it gently down at Jesus’s feet. Turning back again to look up at me, still kneeling near the Christ child, she whispered so only I could hear, “It’s all I have to give.” Then she stood slowly, took me by the arm again and led me back to the choir.
In that flash of a moment I considered what it was that Katrina had just done. Had she given a simple paper bag to the “Lord of Lords” and “King of Kings”? No, I guessed it was probably much more than that. It might have been that the weathered paper bag was no less than the single most valuable possession she had, and therefore, an undeniably excellent gift for the Savior. Or perhaps she was offering the Christ her own pride, exposing the scars of her own self-doubt at the feet of he who is mighty to heal. Whatever the case, I knew her sacrifice was more than I could fully appreciate, let alone articulate.
As we walked slowly away from the manger, a voice in the audience began to sing. It was a woman’s voice with a familiar Southern accent, and she was singing in a faint, choked voice.
“Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.”