The story of Amahl tickles my imagination. While it is fictional, it takes place around the journey of the wise men. A crippled boy befriends royal guests, and his mother wonders at their quest to see the newborn King. I joined a group of friends who drove to the city to see it performed. Their voices were richly resonant, and made a poignant finale to the Christmas season. I cried more than I expected to.

 

Our first batch of kids went when the play appeared in nearby theaters or churches. We listened to the CD each December, and read an illustrated version to get in the mood. One of our sons always leaped from his chair when the music came on announcing the regal entrance, and strutted around the living room. We would quote our favorite parts as the opportunity arose. If someone was eating licorice, for example. 

 

"Black sweet licorice, black sweet licorice! Have some."

 

Or if life was looking bleak we might chime in with "But mother says that now we shall both go begging from door to door! Won't that be fun!"

 

The plot rests on the curved shoulders of a miracle. Which is what draws me and a host of hopeful audiences in. All of us long for healing of one variety or another. Our flaws hold us back the way a bum foot keeps us from running. Timidity, and doubt hobble our dreams with more dead weight than any broken leg ever could. 

 

But the magic begins when we grab our imperfections and step beside a glorious companion, who it turns out is quite happy to have us along. 

 

He or she might even share their licorice. Which is what we were given as we stepped from the theater into the chilly night air to look for stars.