A NIGHT FOR ANGELS, AND LOVE

It was a scene that repeats itself every year at this time in thousands of churches across the country.

Dozens of boys and girls, some wearing angels’ wings, others dressed like shepherds and three posing as wise men, stood on risers in front of the packed church, telling us the story of Christmas. Parents, grandparents and relatives strained their necks trying to get a peek at their loved ones.

The kids sat down after a song when I noticed one little boy. He was a bit slower than the rest in sitting down and discovered that he was being squeezed out of his spot. He tried to sit down but decided there was not enough room and remained standing, a bewil dered look on his face.

He was hardly noticeable, tucked in behind the pulpit. But thinking that several hundred pairs of eyes were upon him, he did the only thing a quiet 4-year-old could do facing such a dilem ma. He started to cry.

As I watched that sobbing boy, standing there rubbing his eyes with small hands clenched tight, a lump rose in my throat. Quickly, an alert Sunday school teacher came to his aid and took him in back of the pulpit to comfort him.

My thoughts were still on that little boy when the innkeeper spoke up and told Mary and Joseph that she had no room for them. But there was a stable out back if they wanted to use it, she said.

My throat grew tighter as I watched the innkeeper say her two lines. Recol lections of Christmases past poured into my mind.

I was once that little boy in front of the church, doing my part to tell the Christmas story and singing Christmas songs. Our cozy country church was always filled to capacity and gave off a feeling of warmth that broke through the icy grip of winter.

I often wondered why the adults did not get sick of the same program year after year. As I grew older, I was less than thrilled at times about doing it over and over. But there was something in the faces of the people that told me there was a reason why they did not grow tired of the story. I didn’t quite understand it, but seeing those faces turned my reluctance about performing into enjoyment, knowing that I was somehow a small part of their joy.

It’s been a few Christmases since my last Sunday school program. Now I have two children of my own, and it’s their turn to tell the story. And as I sat there in church and watched the innkeeper and thought about that little boy, I suddenly understood what was in those faces of so long ago. Yes, there was joy in those faces, but there was also lots of love.

A love for the Christmas story and for the children who tell it. A love that goes beyond the presents under the tree. A love that lasts forever.

Later that night, long after the program was over, I thought of that love again. When you strip away the tinsel, the ribbon and the wrappings, what remains of Christmas is love. A love that came to us in a humble manger so long ago.

Truly, I thought, that is the message of Christmas for me, shown to me by the children.

So with my heart full of love, I leaned over their beds and softly kissed the little boy and the innkeeper good night.