Offering a sweet depiction of the Christmas story using marionettes is a source of joy. Today three friends and I will lift the strings that have laid dormant for a year. The story itself has not been inactive, of course. Those who celebrate the Advent have concocted other ways to sing, to read, and to recite the details about a Baby. But it is my good fortune to tug the threads that give animation to colored silk and creamy wool. John will read the text from Luke, and the children in red bows and dress shirts will provide their own ample supply of innocence. 

 

This was a tradition I shared with my twins for seven years. In the early seasons, they had a step to stand on, because their arms were too short to make it over the stage. But that need expired. Their skill with gentle maneuvering increased, and we might have continued but for covid and their move to Europe. This month there will be a parade of performances, and parties, cards and festivities all dancing around the event of twenty centuries ago. 

 

God is in some ways a puppeteer. Not in the you-must-do-what-I-insist kind of way, but in subtle support. When I experience a nudge toward calling a friend, and it turns out that she is upset, I thank the strings. If I ramp up to complain, and the conversation has no gaps for me to leap in, I thank the strings. When I arrived home yesterday with grumbling on my tongue and saw a pair of does in the yard, I thanked the strings. 

 

The thing is, I believe that the puppets are happier on stage, swishing in the company of five dozen children, than they are in a dark box.