The list of theatrical productions I have participated in is brief. I was a nun in the Sound of Music, and even whipped on a dirndl to be the second runner up in the Salzburg Music Festival behind the Von Trapp Family Singers. Then there are the goofy skits our family does at the Laurel Camp Talent Show. But really for someone skating toward sixty my experience is slim.
There is the Christmas Tableaux, which is done in a church rather than on stage. But we had a couple of directors, microphones and costumers so I guess it counts. There is no curtain or stage per say, so to enter from the back we all had to troop through the basement around vents and storage bins. John held my hand in the dark passages.
One thing they often reminded us in practice was that talking escapes through the vents, and any noise we make in the basement travels easily to the people in the pews. Since we are all invested in sustaining the illusion that angels arrive and disappear without a trace, we complied.
I happened to be felting angels in the spare moments between performances, and as I poked the white wool I watched the flock of little girls in golden crowns and sparkling costumes chatting over cookies. Three inches high and light as a wish, or sixty pounds of playful in a too big robe? Which is closer to the mark of what I know of angels?
This year miracles appeared at our house without any warning. The son who currently tops my Mother Angst List was floundering in Chicago without a job. I prayed. Hard. Then one day with no foreshadow his friend called from Alaska and promised him work as a zip line guide. In three days he was winging toward the Arctic Circle to begin five months of glorious hiking, fishing, kayaking and ushering tourists above the bears.
I felt depressed last summer when I realized my job with little kids had ended. My days of rolling pie crust and singing No Laughing in This House came to a nondescript close. After trudging awhile in the basement of my own head I began to offer sewing classes. Now children line up pink and yellow pins on the edges of beanbags, and stuff polka dot pillows for their grandmas in my sunny room with five machines and a hundred fabrics lining the walls. I call that a miracle.
When we were young John and I played outside. That tendency has not shown up for our own kids as much as I expected. But last spring we plunged into the unknown and became chicken farmers. After a few run ins with the local foxes we now have a sturdy coop with enough wing room for the fluffy flock we call ours. The twins and I spend hours outside filling their water troughs, replenishing pellets, and snuggling tolerant Barred Rocks. We even get to gather still warm eggs. I cannot help but think the feathers we find all over the yard are not exclusively from hens.
Angels seem to prefer anonymity. My sixth sense tingles when I hear footsteps scurrying around behind the scenes, arranging employment for our son, or plunking a flock of chickens in my inept lap.
If the quantity of joy my family and I felt pretending to be angels and shepherds is any indication, being the real thing will be sublime.
