It promised to be a sober Christmas. Hearts of an entire church congregation struggled to perceive the joy of the season as they mourned the loss of a devoted young husband and father, the first veteran of Rock Falls, Iowa killed in Iraqi Freedom. Though six weeks had passed, and the grim reality had been accepted, most longed for something that could make sense of it all, something that could fill the senseless void. Once again, it was only through the innocence of childhood that light dawned on that cold, empty Advent night.
The Children’s Christmas Program had just begun. Thirty-four of the youngest of our congregation paraded down the center aisle overtaking every inch of the sanctuary platform. The energy was contagious, and smiles gradually swept over the crowd as every parent laser beamed their focus on the visual display of the family gene pool. Let’s face it. Thirty-four cherubs, scrubbed spotless, dressed in Christmas finery, all moving in lockstep coordination presents a heartwarming sight, so extraordinary that one must take notice. Faces lit in anticipation.
Suzi Olson stole the show dancing her way through the choreographed maneuvers, her blond ringlets bouncing precisely to the beat of the music. She loved this stuff. Unfortunately, her animated gestures contrasted dramatically with those of five year old Stanley Finnigan who stood glassy eyed like a deer caught in the glare of the headlights, unable to respond in any way.
Jessica Murray was well prepared. She had practiced the music and routines at home every day for three weeks. Delightfully enamored with her new Christmas dress, however, Jessica ignored the frantic arm waving of beloved director, Mrs. Butler and without missing one word, joyfully twirled layers of red and white crinoline to the beat of each song in self absorbed abandon.
Matthew Spencer attempted to keep up with the choir’s elfish maneuvers, but he danced to his own self-directed beat. Having ignored the encouragement to use the bathroom in those critical pre-performance moments, in desperation, he grabbed his crotch and, searching the crowd for his mom, frantically mouthed “I’ve gotta go!”
All hearts warmed in the glow of Christmas celebration. For the first time in weeks, the sanctuary was filled with laughter, delight and the joy of observing the enchantment of childhood at its best. This year’s Christmas program was sure to be the highlight of the season.
As six year old Sammy Pickett walked to microphone, the room hushed with dramatic attentiveness. Sammy’s mom adjusted slightly in her seat, toddler Monica sitting on her lap. The evening had been a warming ember of light in her emotionally drained, joyless Christmas.
Just five weeks ago, Janet Pickett had received the letter revealing that Corporal Douglas Pickett had been killed in a helicopter accident near the Tigress River in northern Iraq. A 26 year old widow now faced an unknown future as single parent to Sammy and his two year old sister Monica.
All eyes focused on young Sammy who seemed oblivious to the emotionally charged stares. Mr. Butler repositioned the towering microphone. Jessica’s red and white crinoline layers ceased to flutter and twirl. Sammy pulled a tightly coiled piece of notebook paper from his trouser hip pocket. Slowly unrolling its edges, he began to read, carefully delivering every word into the hovering mike.
“And He shall be called”. Sammy’s paper suddenly recoiled in his hands as he paused to wipe his nose with his sleeve. The audience in chorus took an anticipatory deep breath. Mission accomplished, Sammy once again gently unrolled the tightly curled notebook paper. The pastor’s wife wiped a wayward tear from her cheek. Sammy looked at the mike, repositioned himself and once again began to read.
“He shall be called Wonderful,
Counselor,
The Mighty God,”
(Sammy sniffed, and continued reading.)
“The everlasting Daddy,
The Prince of Peace.”
Sammy re-rolled his paper and carefully returned it to his back pocket, once again swiping his moist nose with his shirtsleeve. He walked back to his place in the front row of the children’s chorus as Jessica whispered in exasperation, “Everlasting Daddy!” An emotion laden pause was punctuated with a few stifled four-year-old giggles.
Janet Pickett buried her face in the back of young Monica’s fleece cardigan as tears flooded her eyes. Moms searched purses for hankies and dads swiped their eyes in haste as an epidemic of sniffles rippled through the congregation. Even old crotchety Mr. Ferdinand Shaw, president of the school board, blew his nose and wiped his bifocled eyes.
Mrs. Butler whisper-shouted for Suzi to come to the mike for her solo Away in a Manger. Suzi sang to the accompaniment of sniffles, the rustling of tissues and the blowing of noses. As Mary and Joseph processed down the center aisle carrying a Cabbage Patch Kid wrapped in swaddling clothes, the Wise Men followed, balancing colorful bowls and lidded carafes. Timmy, a shepherd, stumbled over the tie belt of his mom’s terry cloth robe. The cherubic faces of all beamed in the glow of candles as the evening ended with Silent Night.
Through it all, I smiled and pondered the poignant words of young Sammy.
I had heard Isaiah’s message every Christmas for 54 years. On that special evening, however, I heard it for the first time in the childhood interpretation of a grieving six-year-old prophet, Sammy Pickett. How very grateful I will ever be.
The Child of Bethlehem came that every one of us might have life, and have it in all of its abundance. No matter what our need, no matter what our circumstances, the Holy One brings life and the power to meet our most basic needs completely, uniquely, perfectly.
As I ponder the gift in all its fullness, I delight in every aspect of His Holy name, for as His Everlasting Child, I truly have everything that I need.
Sondra Brunsting