We arrive early, side-stepping down our usual church pew, to hunker down for another late night Christmas Eve of musical pageantry. This year, however, an added feature makes our wait a bit more tolerable. The Church Trustees recently agreed, after much historical (and ecumenical) debate, to add a tastefully thin, blue cushion to the traditional oak benches we’ve put up with for generations. Interestingly, it takes a little getting used to; not being able to bun-slide into position like Tom Cruise in his slippery white socks. It’s funny how small issues like that aren’t noticeable until someone “moves your cheese” without prior notice.

At any rate, our Yuletide family contingent has grown substantially over the years, necessitating the obligatory saving of seats with large winter overcoats and longer and longer scarves.  My lovely bride and I have survived more than two decades of these happy holiday festivities, having been married the week before Christmas so many years ago in this very sanctuary. By now, at our current stage of matrimonial existence, most things are at least predictable, if not mostly pleasant.

The real excitement and rewards of a marital life well-lived is watching your children, and potentially their children, grow up and develop into who they were meant to be in the first place.  Each of our four kids have grown into their own distinct personalities, complete with the quirks and endearments you could not really think of them being without.

As I glance down the pew from my traditional spot on the far aisle, next to the outdated stained-glass windows, I relish the Norman Rockwell scene playing out before me: watching my wife fuss and fidget over our three beautiful girls and one handsome boy, as we settle in for our annual holiday tradition.

The kids are mostly grown by now. And I am eagerly anticipating the next generation of grandchildren, wondering what unique mixture of DNA will manifest itself (combined of course with the wild card of their respective “Significant Others,” who at this point are still undefined). I like to think that whomever they hook up with, some of the better genealogical traits from my wife and me will mix well with their partners’ hopefully compatible genome.

“Our Ladies of Perpetual Hospitality” have manifested a glorious potluck smorgasbord of delectable delights, including the traditional doily-covered Christmas plates heaping with homemade cookies, fudge and finger-cakes, in the multi-purpose room downstairs. Sort of a Protestant “After-Party” to commemorate the real Reason for The Season.

Our aging, but ageless, musical director — a former Radio City Music Hall “Rockette” — has created quite a locally-known dance dynasty with her auspicious “Royale Academy,” despite retaining the best middle-aged curvature in these neck of the woods. She has doggedly remained single and childless all these years, having divorced her formerly gay, East Coast dance partner after a few generally tolerable years of matrimony. He, by the way, elected to stay in town after the divorce, remarrying and over-populating our small school district with more children than a less progressive mind would think prudent. Additionally, and acting against type, he developed quite a lucrative life insurance and financial investment business, discovering that he was even better with monetary numbers than with “….six, seven eight” dance numbers.  Albeit, he was no slouch at the latter either.

His Ex, the music director, still bit of a “Nervous Nelly” despite her glory years on stage, is flitting around in a stunning, form-fitting ensemble, unabashedly displaying her notorious figure. Suddenly without warning, the now middle-aged Ichabod Crane-looking organist, perched atop his familiar tuck and roll tuffet, blasts everyone awake with that same opening fanfare he uses at this or any other austere occasion. The enormous pipes of his massive machine span the entire width of the front platform and resonate bone-deep, making his introductory recital a full-bodied experience.

Eventually, and right on cue, the fresh-faced acolytes inch their way down the center aisle, hefting their brass wick-wands, trying to coax the tall white tapers into a flame before their feeble arms give out halfway down the row. The pageant officially starts with a rousing rendition of “Carol of The Bells” performed by our rag-tag, black-and-whitely-dressed “Youth Bell Choir.” It never fails that the youngest, smallest bell-ringer is always saddled with the biggest, baddest brass-bell. I always take note of how many times the poor lad must shoulder his musical monstrosity to hit those deep, bass notes, and how many times the big brass cauldron slips from his white-gloved grip, almost tipping him over backward. Then, there’s the obligatory post-program delay as the gym teacher/bell-choir director wrangles her charges to quickly fold their foam-covered tables and pack everything up, like a disciplined squadron of Army Rangers on a mission from God.

It isn’t long before the sanctuary lights dim and the Associate Pastor (who must have drawn the short straw this year) settles into the podium to begin reciting the familiar Christmas Story.  Upon hearing the opening lines of the “Good Doctor,” Luke’s Gospel (Chapter 2, Verse 8), I take a brief fade from reality, knowing by heart how long it takes Linus to tell Charlie Brown (in the King James version) “What Christmas is all about.”

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night….”

In an instant, I find myself in the middle of a reality-bending, “Rocky Horror Picture Show” version of our same Christmas Pageant, slipping in and out of consciousness, as Baby Jesus climbs up my leg, tightly-wrapped in swaddling clothes, with a “Veggie Tale” pacifier in his mouth. I distinctly recall that this strange “Fear & Loathing Tableau” included the Shepherds, “abiding in their fields,” rapping with Kenny Rogers about their sheep following a “sparkly star,” then challenging the Wise Men to a drop-the-mic battle royale of classic scenes from the Old Testament.

I could not have been unconscious long, as when I awoke Mother Mary was placing Baby Jesus back in the manger and our “First Responder” Barber Shop Quartet was singing a hip-hop rendition of “Oh Come, Oh Come Emmanuel.”  It was then, as I was fighting through the approaching fog of reality, that it happened again…!  It is truly strange how certain meaningful life lessons can sneak up on you, unannounced, in the strangest places.

Lifting my head to a more socially acceptable position, I casually glance around in an attempt to cover my momentary slip of ecumenical propriety, when to my utter surprise, I notice seated next to me, or rather occupying a well-used handicapped scooter parked in the aisle next to me, is the same unforgettable ‘Dancing Angel’ I had admired so many Christmas Pageants ago. I was single then and her plump, sincere countenance was so stunning as she danced before the Lord in the glow of a dusty overhead can-light, with the angelic face of a saint. She is definitely older now. So am I. But, through the years, and despite her current physical challenges, the goodness of her soul still shines through, like a glorious “Coat of Many Colors.”

I try not to stare as she sits next to me, under the same old can-light, with a timeless look of praise and worship on her face. No longer able to dance, or perhaps even stand for any length of time, her grace and gracefulness has not diminished since I first saw her so long ago. I think of telling her how much joy and reflection she brought to my youthful self, well over 30 years ago.

But, I didn’t want to interrupt her total engrossment in the Pageant scene. Besides, how could I explain to her that it was her humble, inspiring performance, on a night just like this one, that brought me to a clearer understanding of who I really am and, indeed, who I did not want to become. Instead, I grin and she returns a casual smile, not fully realizing the true import of our casual Christmas Eve greeting.

Just then, the organ music blasts the majestic opening strains of Handel’s “Messiah,” signaling the climax of our local Christmas Pageant. As everyone stands in honor of the moment, my “Angel on the Scooter” instinctively moves forward to obtain a better view and I lose her in the crowd. If she could stand and dance again, I know she would, without hesitation. Even now, resigned to her mobility aid, I get the impression she still thinks of others before herself and her “Lord of Lords” above all else.

I try to find her again after the service, but it’s impossible to fight through the stampede of hungry Methodists herding to the midnight potluck. I hope to see her downstairs. But, our small church is not all that handicap accessible. And unless she braves the elements and the rain outside to drive her scooter through the dark parking lot, it will be difficult to accomplish. For a moment I panic in the potluck line, torn between staying and using my keychain penlight to hunt for her outside. But, I find it a bit awkward to leave my family for my own, hard-to-explain, ‘Mission From God.”  After a while, it becomes obvious that my ‘Can Light Angel’ will not make it to the potluck tonight.

And so it is, that I have come full circle in my humble journey of faith. Back home again, late Christmas Eve — or rather early Christmas morning — I find myself rocking again before the glowing embers of the warm wood stove, cat on my lap; having just wrapped the last gift and hung all the stockings. I pause for a moment to realize how joyfully grateful I really am, for what God has brought me through, and now brought me to… enjoying every moment as it presents itself, every day.

Merry Christmas….!

– By Michael W. Hall

Michael W. Hall, J.D. is the founding partner of The Hall Law Firm, P.S. He graduated from Edmonds High School in 1971.