a christmas story…

I put this story together for a Christmas Eve reading at my church… But it didn’t quite fit… so, here it is for your enjoyment. For those who read Churched, you’ll recognize some of this…

As a child, I loved the Christmas Season more than any other time of the year. I was raised in the 1980s, long before the word “holiday” became dirty and turquoise and fuchsia became Christmas colors. We had it made back then. Not only did the Christmas season begin in September just as soon as the Sears Wish Book came in the mail, we had Christmas trees that blinked and tinsel that was flammable. Sure, we only had Atari, but we had imaginations. And there was no better time to use your imagination than at Christmas.

Maybe that was why, when I was 11 years old, my mother told my sisters and me that she wanted to do something new and exciting for Christmas that year.

“We just need a little pizzazz,” she told my father as he sat in his recliner and hemmed and hawed, possibly thinking about how much Mom’s “holiday pizzazz” would end up costing him. My father could be a little bit of a Yuletide Scrooge. Oh, Dad believed in the birth of Christ with all of his heart, soul, and mind. He just didn’t believe in Christmas. But thankfully, for the sake of my Sears’ Wish Book list, my mother believed in celebrating both.

Unlike Dad, I was fully supportive of Mom surprising the family with something new and exciting that Christmas. I didn’t have a clue what my mother was planning, but I secretly hoped she was leaning toward taking us on vacation to some place exciting. Like Bethlehem or Rome or Dollywood.

Those locations were my top three, but I wasn’t exactly picky. I just wanted to be out of town on Christmas Eve to avoid a repeat of what happened the year before when I performed the starring role in my church’s Christmas pageant. My Sunday school teacher Mrs. Snover told my mother that while she was writing the church’s Christmas play, she kept picturing me in the lead role. “I’m sure he’d be happy to do it,” my mother had told her, “What’s it about?”

“Oh, Carole,” squealed Mrs. Snover like an elf who had just invented a brand new toy, “It’s called ‘The Town’s Scrawniest Donkey.”

My mother’s jaw tightened. “The Town’s Scrawniest Donkey? And you want Matthew to play the lead?”

She nodded. “I think he’ll be perfect for the role of Malachi the donkey!”

Mrs. Snover went on to explain to my mother that her play was based loosely on the narrative of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, except it was about a lonely donkey named Malachi who lived on a farm with a group of verbally abusive barnyard animals. Because Malachi was ugly, scrawny, and uneducated, the other animals laughed at him, called him names, and refused to let him play any of their barnyard games. Like Bible Trivia. However, just like Rudolph, Malachi did end up living happily ever after. As it turned out, when Joseph and Mary were about halfway to Bethlehem, the donkey they were riding hurt its leg and had to be put down. Even though Malachi was scrawny, he ended up carrying the Virgin Mary the rest of the way to Bethlehem and witnessing the birth of Jesus.

I will admit, I was very convincing in the role of Malachi. In addition to being the shortest and skinniest kid in my Sunday school class, I could also suck in my gut with such force that a few people claimed they could see the outline of my pancreas. So portraying an insecure malnourished donkey came natural for me.

The worst part about playing Malachi happened when a group of older kids began calling me the Biblical word for donkey. For months, I was called that. Worse still, I was a scrawny unattractive one.

As it turned out, my mother didn’t take us on a vacation to Dollywood. We didn’t go anywhere for Christmas that year. Which meant I got to play the role of Malachi the donkey one more time.

When we arrived home after the play, Mom began spreading frosting on a sheet cake. “What’s that for?” I asked.

“We’re throwing Jesus a birthday party,” she said. I glanced up at my mother’s face to see if she was being serious. “I’ve made a cake, the dining room is all decorated with green and red balloons, and I bought candles.”

I watched her place thirty-three candles on the cake. Then, the entire family gathered around the dining room table, and after Mom had lit the candles, we sang “Happy Birthday” to the empty seat at the end of the table.

After we had finished singing, we stood real still and stared at the birthday cake for a few seconds. I think we were waiting to see who would blow out the candles, wondering if a mighty rushing wind would blow through the house and extinguish the flames.

Nothing happened.

Eventually, my brother-in-law leaned in and blew out the candles. Then, he looked at all of us and said, “What? I didn’t do anything.”

As the family ate ice cream and cake in Jesus’ honor, we sat quietly in the living room watching various sections of our Christmas tree blink on and off. My father pulled out his Bible and began reading the Christmas story. After he read the part about the angels gathering and shouting glory to God in the highest, he prayed. Then we sang a couple of Christmas carols. All felt calm and bright at my house that Christmas Eve.

It wasn’t Bethlehem or Dollywood, but there was peace on earth and birthday cake. So maybe it was close.

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