Miracles do occur.
To this I can personally attest, because another one happened last weekend when my talented partner Jeanette and I weathered another in an increasingly long list of Sunday School Christmas programs. We were aided by a most helpful crew of assistants, tech people and Sunday School teachers–we thank you most sincerely.
You’ve got to hand it to the 26 three- to 10-year-olds who pulled it off; they were ultimately adorable, engaging, expressive, enthusiastic and spiritually inspiring as they innocently shared the Christmas message via music, words and actions.
The congregation appreciated their efforts, as did we. Was it the softly sung “Away in a Manger” or the belted out “Let Them In” (to the tune of that 2014 favorite, “Let it Go”) that was more charming?
Hard to say, but the overall effect resulted in a sanctuary that resounded with applause at the program’s conclusion.
So, you ask: Where’s the miracle?
That would be surviving this annual journey to Bethlehem. The moving target of students, with attendance varying due to illness, sports, family vacations, Thanksgiving and more, is always a challenge to navigate, as we try to keep track of who was present when we introduced a new song, or passed out speaking parts, or outfitted costumes.
Then there’s the fact that Jeanette and I more closely resemble Laurel & Hardy than Balthazar, Melchior and Casper.
One Sunday in late November was a doozy. The children’s choir was singing a number for the church service, but we were frantically preparing packets of lyrics for rehearsal purposes and going over Christmas program songs on top of the needs for the day at hand.
The first casualty: a stapled finger, as the packets were speedily assembled. Pulling out the staple was a quick remedy; I mean, Jeanette barely noticed. (She’s from North Dakota, after all.)
Next up: as Jeanette dashed to the office to make a few extra copies, a door unexpectedly closed behind her–and, unbeknownst to me, she became locked in a vestibule between the office and the pastor’s study, with a door to the parking lot at her back.
What choice did she have when no one responded to her desperate knocks but to exit the church and reenter (in frigid weather) through another door? I was surprised to see her walking in, and cluelessly asked her where she had gone.
As we continued collating, playing a game of beat-the-clock before church began, blood suddenly began dripping on a paper. What’s this? A bloody nose! Good thing neither of us is squeamish. The missing car keys at the end of the morning capped it all off.
During one Saturday morning practice session, Jeanette was in the midst of directing the 20-some kids in attendance when her cell phone rang. I kept playing the piano, monitoring her conversation with one ear cocked as the youth continued warbling, “Angels, We Have Heard on High.”
“You did WHAT??” I heard, seeing Jeanette’s eyes open wide in horror. “WHERE?”
Nothing like learning your child has just projectile-vomited in a friend’s vehicle while hitching a ride to a sporting event. But the show went on.
The Sunday before the program, things seemed to be coming together. Arriving almost on time (a miracle in itself for typically tardy me), I tossed my cell phone and coat on a front pew before settling into place at the keyboard.
But later, after church, I couldn’t locate my cell phone. A desperate search ensued, with me carefully rethinking my earlier movements and retracing my steps. No luck.
Hours later, I was leaving home with my daughter, ready to head to the church to hunt for it again, when I asked her to try calling my phone just in case I’d accidentally dropped it in the car and we’d hear it ring.
“Hello?” Someone had answered it! But who?
Jeanette’s son, who heard something in his mother’s bag and checked it out, thinking it was her phone (which happens to be identical to mine–oops). Turned out she had TWO phones–and one of them was mine. Mystery solved.
We won’t soon be mistaken for the Wise Men/women, but I strongly suspect God isn’t finished with us yet.
Joy to the world!