This picture captures a moment long ago. Well, who's to say what constitutes long? Time is an illusive barometer of evolution.
The first year that we were part of the choir for the tableaux the girls hugged their stuffed lamb through four performances. Our tradition continued unabated, though they graduated to angels
somewhere along the way.
Seeing this photograph infuses me with indescribable peace. More so than when it was taken, because back then I was distracted with shepherding two small girls who were themselves shepherds. The minutia of keeping four-year-olds cooperative and fed, neither overly tired nor lost in a cathedral with a labyrinthine basement precluded such impractical emotions as peace. But lo these eighteen seasons later there is enough
contentment to share. And so I shall.
In the absence of costumes in their size I sewed these. Too big, it turns out but the twins filled them out by the following Christmas. In subsequent seasons I smiled to see younger children wearing them. Funny how our outer wear does not keep up with us in that regard. One could hope that we oldsters have changed in meaningful ways as well, but there is little evidence to back it up.
It
occurs to me that tranquility waits. There is no expiration date, like the cans in the back of my pantry. Even if I was a somewhat distracted mother for a couple of decades, the blessedness of that sacred trust did not get huffy and stomp away. It waited for me to wake up.
Mary, Did You Know? is a piece we sing. It suggests that the mother of Christ did not, perhaps could not, absorb the magnitude of this Child and His impact on the world.
It seems that her comprehension was not the linchpin to whether the Messiah would one day rule the nations.
Maybe it is inconsequential whether I am fully conscious to the ordinary circumstances of my routine. Even if I ponder, some realities are too ethereal, or else too familiar to catch my wandering attention.
Perhaps it is even possible that I may graduate to a celestial purpose somewhere along the
way.
