My father was a minister. Since much of his career was in small congregations, his family was recruited to make church happen. If a service was held in a rented facility, we lugged in a box of liturgies, plugged in the tape recorder, vacuumed the altar, arranged flowers, and set up scissors and glue for Sunday School. I was the youngest and had the longest shift. 

I remember one Sunday I was running the tape recorder for canned music as there was no organist. Halfway through a kneeling prayer it slowed down, sounding like it was underwater. It came to a complete halt. This was a problem I was not trained in and sat there paralyzed. A parishoner named Harold snuck over to me, fiddled with a few knobs, and the hymn cranked up again.

This Christmas my twins have showed up big time. They were angels in the Tableux, keeping an eye on the littlest cherubs who had a tendency to do jumping jacks. They helped me put on the marionette show, handling the scenery, a prelude, and three puppets a piece. They are part of a small choir for Lessons and Carols, dressed in black and white and performing several songs. If they are not too spent, they will help me lead music on the Sunday after Christmas as well. 

One of the side effects for me of being part of an event, is an absence of criticism. When I arrive as an observer, opinions about the success or failure of it creep in where participation would have been. When I am full tilt helping behind the scenes, judgment is irrelevant. There is no time to fling complaints when I am engaged with making it happen. 

A similar dynamic is at play in my marriage. When John and I are elbow to elbow getting supper in front of kids, or a tree to balance in a metal stand, my propensity for critiquing him takes a back seat to accomplishing the task. 

That is a good thing.