Last night Mom and I went to the Christmas Eve service at the little country church where I was baptized. And I’m fairly certain I hadn’t stepped foot in the building since we left that church (for another) when I was in elementary school.
When I was very young I played an angel in the children’s Christmas program every year and was usually quite comfortable perched on the risers, belting out “Away in a Manger” to the congregation at large. However, Mom remembers one year I protested that I did *not* want to be an angel that year (beginning to “discover” my personality?), but like any good parent she disregarded my hesitation, straightened my wings and gave me a gentle shove. With one look out into the sea of staring adults I burst into tears, jumped down off the stage and ran straight into my parents’ laps, where I cowered, watching alllll the other sparkly little angels sing their parts. The pressure, just way too much!
Last night we saw an old friend whose now-grown daughter was also an angel with me. She said they found all those costumes packed away in a box just last year and finally threw them all out. Well, how ’bout that. No more halo to hang over me! Hallelujah! Though… without it I can’t go back and finish the show. And, really, if I think about it, that was kinda the fun part.