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Dec 2006 Issue
by Anne Bradshaw
This Christmas is lame. Here I am, fifteen years old, and they have me playing Joseph in the Primary Nativity. I mean–at my age–parading with little kids in front of the whole Branch, dressed in an ancient dressing gown?
No one at school knows, thank goodness. For once, I’m glad I’m the only church member there. As for my Seminary teacher’s suggestion that we share the Gospel as a Christmas gift–no way, not me, not at my school.
My dad, the Branch President, and I arrive at Church early. Straight into dress rehearsal. I’m scratching this major itch on my neck when I hear soft whimpers coming from behind a screen, below which poke two small black feet.
I inch the screen forward and a pair of huge brown eyes blink at me. I’ve never seen her before, but guess she’s about four years old.
I whisper, holding out my hand, “Are you lost?”
She hiccups, saying nothing.
I smile. “Look, I’m the one who should be crying, dressed in this wooly thing. Is your mom here?”
She gives a slow nod, and sticks her thumb in her mouth, sucking like crazy.
I kneel on the floor, hunching my back, eyebrows raised. “Would you like a ride and we’ll go find her?”
A wobbly smile. “The mishries bring me here,” she whispers. “They took Mam and my brother. I want to be an angel, but no one sees me.” More tears.
I grin, wishing I was the one hiding, then flatten my back so she can climb on. “What’s your name?”
She giggles, small hands tugging at my costume, legs kicking and scrambling in her effort to climb up. “I’m Leah.”
She blows her nose on my head-cloth, and I shut my eyes, taking a deep breath. That’s all I need. Just hope the Young Women’s choir doesn’t look too close on stage.
We leave the room and are heading toward the hall, when Leah gives this piercing yell, right in my ear. I nearly trip.
Another screech. “My Mam!” She jiggles, twisting the towel draped over my head.
I squint past the cloth now dangling in my eyes, and half see the group ahead. Leah slithers to the ground, dragging on my clothes. I yank at my lopsided costume and stare–a sick feeling blocking my throat.
I drop the headpiece across my face, but it’s too late. He recognizes me. Standing next to his mother, is Mike Mbuli–from school.
My breath ejects on a long, silent Noooo! If feelings could melt me, I’d be a blob on the floor in seconds.
“Abe? Is that you, Abe?” The grin oozing across Mike’s face tells all.
Should I shrug, laugh, and pretend I often trail through church like some nomadic hooligan? Or jabber nonsense and run, so he thinks I’m not me?
I do neither. A thought creeps into my mind—be honest.
I sigh; shaking my head in despair, then pull my costume straight, mumbling, “I’m in a . . . show.” Turning to Mrs. Mbuli, “I can take your daughter back to Primary, I’m sure they need her.”
I don’t dare face Mike. Imagination is bad enough. But on feeling his hand on my arm I turn. How weird. He looks–different.
“Don’t suppose they’d have me too, would they, Abe? This stuff the Elders teach about Christ–it’s cool, man. And I thought Mormons weren’t Christian. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Before I can think of an excuse, he grabs Leah and marches ahead.
I wave at Mrs. Mbuli and the grinning Elders, and follow. This isn’t for real. Mike? The class clown? In the Nativity?
Sister Bailey loves the extra Wise Man. No one cares that he and I stand taller than the rest–or that a small, bare-footed angel creeps up and holds his hand.
What gets me choked is when we sing Picture a Stable. It’s new to Mike so he stands there silent and dignified. I watch, and chills run ear to ear as tears roll down his cheeks. Something’s happening between him and the Lord. I feel it.
My mind is changing. Who’d have thought tough Mike wanted such a gift?
