Christmas eve was clear and cold and magical. There was a good feeling in our house — I think my parents were realizing that they were getting back in touch with me. But it was different from when I was younger. I didn’t do things just to make them happy anymore. I had things that were important to me, and I only talked to Mom and Dad about something if I really felt I could.
I guess I was sort of a 10-year-old teenager.
I lit my candles, dipped my pen, and lettered: In order to enter the kingdom of heaven,
you must become as a little child.
I had learned from my reading about the ancients that all the holidays used to start in the evening of the day before, and continue all the next day. I was glad some of them, like Christmas, still did.
At 11:00 we got our coats and boots on and headed out into the cold. Mom was a little freaked at first that I was purposefully sliding on the icy spots, but then she realized that I was doing better sliding than they were doing trying not to.
“You know,” I said, “if Joseph and Mary traveled for three days to get from Nazareth to Bethlehem, it seems like it should he easy for us to walk a mile to church.”
My parents loosened up after that and we laughed and talked the rest of
the way.
“Dear, do you know that Ariel has taught herself calligraphy, and has made her own Christmas cards?” Mom said to Dad.
“That’s wonderful, Honey. Isn’t that almost a lost art?” Dad asked me.
“Sort of,” I said. “Not too many people like to do things slowly and carefully anymore.”
When we arrived, the choir was singing. We got candles, lit them at the big candle, and walked into the dark church, about half full of people holding glowing candles, their faces orange in the flamelight. We added our wrapped gifts to the growing pile along the sanctuary rail and found seats a few rows back.
By midnight, the place was packed. We all sang Silent Night as the priests and altar servers came up the aisle, and when the priest blew out his candle, we all did. A huge cloud of smoke rose slowly toward the ceiling and some of the lights came on. They must have switched off the smoke detectors for a while.
The usual readings were replaced by the Christmas play. There was a little wooden table in the aisle not far from where we were sitting, and Mary appeared and started working at it. They even got her age right — she was a girl I kind of knew, who was about 14. A priest in his fanciest robes played Gabriel and told her about her future son. I could tell they had really practiced — they had all the lines memorized and didn’t stumble much.
Mary visited Elizabeth, and Caesar Augustus announced the census. Then Joseph and Mary, complete with pillow under her clothes, journeyed around the outer aisles of the church toward Bethlehem. They talked as they walked, and while everyone turned to watch and listen, the altar servers set up the stable at the front of the church.
Joseph argued with the innkeeper, and they finally went to the stable.
Older women gathered, the lights dimmed out, and Mary went through about a 30-second labor. A baby started crying — they must have had it waiting in the altar servers’ room.
Shepherds came in from all directions carrying lanterns and candles, gathered around the little family, and Mary could be seen cuddling the crying baby. The choir started Alleluia, and everyone sang as the lights came on.
The baby, not getting changed or nursed, kept crying.
As Joseph and Mary walked down the center aisle, carrying the baby and talking between them, the priests began to prepare the Eucharist. I had never looked that closely before, but now my eyes were glued to their every action —
washing their hands, pouring the wine and holy oil, breaking the bread. It was a magical ceremony! I knew that magic and religion were cousins, but now I realized just how close they really were. I watched the priest’s hand motions, listened to their invocations and prayers. It was beautiful!
I lined up to share the broken bread and cup of wine — real bread, not the usual wafers. It was more special than before because I knew more about it. I still felt close to God, but I also felt a connection with some simple people thousands of years ago who met in caves or groves and struggled to worship and to understand. When I took that bit of bread in my mouth, it was the bread eaten around the Beltane fires on May eve for centuries past. That sip of wine was from the temple of the Delphic Oracle in Greece. I sat back down with my parents and closed my eyes, feeling a little overwhelmed.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, the mass was ended. The priest announced that there were Yule cakes and egg nog, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic, in the Parish Hall. Mom and Dad were smiling and happy, and we went over to get some.
We found a place to sit. Dad looked me right in the eyes and said, “Y0u’re a grown-up girl now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Dad,” I said.
Mom and I held hands, which was kind of new for us, and Dad brought back three Yule cakes and three cups of egg nog, all the same kind.