The marionette service was sweet. Not because of the cookies served, much as Ben enjoys those, but because of the children. When we practiced, there were no people in the seats, or on the rug in front of the stage. It was enjoyable to lift the strings that carried Joseph along the fabric hills, pausing to knock on the door of the inn and be turned away. The spotlight on the angel poured a blast of brightness in the darkened room, and the lilting music played while we billowed the white and red silks as we began, and again when we finished.  We were ready.

 

But then the families arrived. This gave meaning to everything. John invited kids to leave their seats and come closer, rather than to strain to peek past the shoulders of grown ups. As I sat behind the stage, I could hear the rumble of their feet, while boys and girls came and sat an arm's breadth away. 

 

When the story started, I stood up, and could see them. I caught my breath. Here was a flock of children, arms around their little sister or brother, eyes clamped on the puppets. We puppeteers wore black to melt into the background, but I need not have worried. Their eyes were only on the marionettes. 

 

It always amazes me how a room packed with toddlers and preschoolers can fall into a hush. Afterward, one father told me that his daughter buried her face in his chest. 

 

" I love it so much," she whispered. 

 

John read the text while we four women moved the characters in sync. I was glad that the children were close enough to see each detail. Rather than being twenty feet back, they had the best seats in the house. 

 

But then, I realized that that honor belonged to me.