Children’s comical performances help melt the iceberg inside

I was not expecting to see my determined little great-niece Addy in her pretty red dress appearing onstage with a dangerous-looking ax over her shoulder. I not only laughed out loud but snorted in a manner unusual for a gray-haired Mennonite woman. The ax turned out to be plastic, I was soon relieved to see, and the earnest first graders continued narrating “The Tale of Three Trees.” Addy was a woodcutter who cut down one of the trees that aspired to great things and ended up as the manger for the Baby Jesus, his ship or his cross.

Then, as I knew it would, my laughter turned to sudden tears, and both dissolved a bit of the iceberg I carry inside.

Even though my connections to the Pioneer Christian Academy Christmas program were a bit distant, through the children of a friend and a nephew, I was there with my husband and daughter as part of my plan to get through the holiday season.

“Prepare yourself,” my therapist had said. “The holidays are brutal for people who are grieving. Everyone else is celebrating and families are together, which makes it worse for anyone who’s lost someone recently.”

Maybe it was an odd choice, less than two months after the devastating loss of our youngest son, Steven, who passed away suddenly at almost 31 years old. But what better way to distract myself and make the season pass quickly than by going to see as many children’s Christmas programs as possible?

Back when my husband was a private school principal, I sometimes directed the Christmas play and was always in charge of the food for 200 guests afterward. This involved boxes of tortilla chips from Restaurant Supply and giant Crock-Pots of hot cheese and sausage dips made with, my son Ben says, “those gallon cans of radioactive cheese,” an accurate description, I’m afraid. The moms brought cookies by the hundreds and trays of fruit, and somehow there was always enough.

I sewed costumes for weeks beforehand and provided props, including a ham from the freezer when they performed “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever,” as well as coffee tables, bathrobes and cut-glass bottles that represented myrrh.

I’m not invested in the performance like I used to be, with Paul retired and our kids now adults. With years of experience behind me, I knew I could attend random programs and count on seeing and hearing adorable kids, awkward shepherds, hilarious unscripted moments, beautiful carols, and gentle reminders of the gift of Emmanuel, God with us, all without the nail-biting anxiety of having my own nervous children on stage.

In those days, I used to see laughter and crying as opposites. But I find in this season that a mix of many emotions sloshes in a 50-gallon galvanized stock tank down inside my rib cage. Tiny hoses lead to my eyes, and both humor and sadness spill easily in a gush of tears that brings relief to the ache that is always present. Gratitude, frustration, joy, and exhaustion — all fountain out of the same pool.

Life and therapy have taught me to listen to what I need, and this year I knew I needed a safe venue providing both distraction and sentiment, with plenty of nostalgia. Christmas programs were the perfect solution.

In addition to Addy’s entrance with the ax, the program delivered shy kids we could barely hear, kids who shouted like protesters, our little friend Peter as a grinning Joseph, an enthusiastic “Go Tell It On The Mountain,” and the large audience singing “Joy to the World” together, which is how every Christmas program ought to end. Awe and joy mingled with sadness at the brokenness of this world, and I felt it all.

One Saturday, my daughter Emily and I attended a homeschool group’s performance of “The Gift of the Magi,” one of my favorite stories. Our friend Esta’s lovely daughter Eden dressed in an elaborate Wise Man costume and narrated as her 11-year-old brother Merek, in a shabby wool jacket and newsboy cap, played the part of a poor but loving husband, a challenging role for a mischievous redhead. No doubt I extracted more feelings from the performance than it was intended to provide, but once again it delivered a soothing mix of sweetness and the sadness of things not turning out as we expected, even when we act out of love.

At church on the following Sunday morning, a large group of Sunday school children, led by my husband’s sister Rosie, sang two songs just before the sermon. In the brief hush between songs, with impossibly perfect timing, a boy in the middle of the back row blasted a high-pitched sneeze that could be heard in every corner of the church. Thankfully, the resulting spray didn’t shower us all, but the kid next to him reached up to dry his unfortunate cheek.

Once again, I completely lost it, laughing with the rest of the congregation, and then suddenly finding myself in tears, the two mingling in a response that no longer surprises me.

No wonder Jesus welcomed children in their delightful innocence and honesty, because “The kingdom of God belongs to such as these.” And no wonder I was drawn to their performances this year. In this messy season of celebration and pain, of nostalgia and hope and despair, I needed a taste of a kingdom where we are welcome in our brokenness, and all will be fulfilled and restored.