Greetings all Christmas lovers out there.
I have been working on a collection of Christmas essays and poems in a manuscript for a couple years.
Below is the first essay and poem from the book. A little Christmas present from Saint Marty.
The Christmas Eve Wrinkle
by: Martin Achatz
For
five years, I had been roped into being the accompanist for St. Jude’s
children’s Christmas Eve mass. For five
years, I had banged out Silent Night for tinsel-winged, gum-chewing,
bathrobed, and foil-crowned angels, Marys, Josephs, shepherds, and kings. And after each of those years, I had gone
home, eggnogged myself silly, and tried to survive the holidays with what was
left of my sputtering Christmas spirit.
It usually started at the beginning
of each October. And this year seemed no
different.
Mrs. Janice, mother of the twin
terrors of last year’s heavenly host, approached me one Sunday. “Oh, Jeremy and Justin are so looking forward
to being in the choir again this year.”
Dr. and Mrs. Bingly, parents of a
two-year shepherd alumnus, had said to me during a chance meeting at the IGA,
“Well, I hope that little Matt has a shot at Joseph this year.”
Andrew Elbow’s mother and father,
holding the same high aspirations for their son, volunteered for the Christmas
decorating committee, the Christmas bazaar organizing committee, the Christmas
adult choir, and the Christmas bell-ringing committee.
Finally, the hammer had fallen. Father George, beloved pastor of St. Jude’s,
had pulled me aside after choir practice one Wednesday, laid a quaking hand on
my shoulder, and sighed, “Well, I guess it’s about time to get the children’s
Christmas Eve mass rolling.”
And so ensued a flurry of
announcements, bed-sheet costuming, telephone calls, prodding stage parents,
and, for me, two months of Saturday morning rehearsals with twenty, off-key
seven-year-olds under the direction of Theta Creed, retired kindergarten
teacher and unchallenged fuhrer of the Christmas Eve program.
“Now, boys and girls, we must all
use our best singing voices.” Theta
marched up and down in front of the children, waving sheet music in their
faces. “Remember who’s going to be out
there. It’s going to be mommy and daddy
and grandma and grandpa and brother and sister.
A whole church-full of people are going to be here to listen and watch
you sing and read. They’re not here for
their health. So sing nicely.” Theta glared at her charges. “And smile.”
I waited and watched for the usual
array of mishaps, calamities, and setbacks.
First came little Tony Dickens’s disappearance into the room behind the
organ pipes, and the two-hour search that resulted. Then there was sweet Mary Agnes’s refusal to
once again be relegated to the angel choir when she was obviously Mary material. And, of course, there was the whole messy
business of explaining how God was Jesus’ father when Mary was married to
Joseph.
I witnessed all of these things and
saw the days of December slowly climb into the double digits. Nothing completely shocking happened (unless
you count Jay-Jay Feebler wetting his pants in front of the altar). No major casualties. No lawsuits.
No unexpected wrinkles, until . . .
“I just want to try something a
little different!” Hector Hicks fairly
glowed with Yule-tide joy.
Father George eyed him uncertainly. “I’m not sure, uh . . .” He looked at Theta’s tight-lipped expression,
and then at me. “It would seem more, uh,
uh . . . Appropriate to uh, uh . . .” He
looked at Theta again. “Once the
children remove their costumes, I don’t—“
“Something special, Father
George.” Hector smiled.
“I don’t seem to be . . .” Father George floundered.
Theta’s foot began to tap.
“Perhaps—“ I began.
“Mr. Hicks,” Theta geared up. “I really don’t know if—“
“I only wish to underscore the true
meaning of Christmas, Miss Creed.”
Hector saw Theta’s cheeks flush.
“Uh, just as you do every year with all of your under-appreciated work.”
“Well, I—“ Theta’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“You do such a beautiful job every
time.” Hector took her hand. “And all out of the goodness of your heart.”
Theta smiled. “Yes.”
She removed her hand from his hand.
“Yes, well, we all want to show the children what Christmas is all
about.”
“You have such a natural rapport
with them, too.” Hector shrugged. “I don’t know how you do it. For me, you’re enough to inspire any
Christmas.”
And then I heard it. It was a sound frighteningly foreign, like a
rusty hasp being pried open. Theta Creed
giggled.
“What was your idea, Mr.
Hicks?” She linked arms with Hector and
led him away.
On Christmas Eve, I sat on the organ
bench, the music for “Joy to the World” spread out before me, waiting for
Theta’s signal to play the final song.
The entire program had come off with
relatively few hitches. Parents had
delivered their children on time. The
wise men had tripped only once during their entrance, causing a slight domino
effect through the shepherds. Mary
didn’t drop the baby Jesus as she carried him to the manger. The angels had remembered to remove the gum
from their mouths. Joseph even managed
to put his arm around Mary. And now,
everyone waited for Theta’s signal.
But Theta didn’t signal.
Reggie Feebler, Jay-Jay’s brother,
fidgeted with his bath/shepherd’s robe.
Pauline Paisely straightened her coat-hanger wings. Jeremy Janice, one of the three kings, traded
his gold for his brother Justin’s frankincense.
But Theta didn’t signal.
Someone in the first pew
coughed. A kneeler banged to the
floor. Arms throughout the congregation
waved in the air as jackets were pulled on.
But Theta didn’t signal. She simply stood before the children at the
head of the church, holding her music in front of her, smiling strangely.
Father George looked at me. I shrugged.
The door at the rear of the church
opened.
All heads turned.
Santa Claus stepped in.
He stood unmoving for a few seconds,
meeting everyone’s gaze, and then slowly began walking up the center
aisle. The buckles of his boots chinged
in the silence.
The children’s choir was going into
paroxysms of whispering and pointing.
Jay-Jay Feebler had his arm tucked between his legs and was doing a
jig. The kings had abandoned their
precious, glittery gifts. And the angels
were crowding the shepherds.
I looked at Father George. Father George shrugged.
Santa didn’t stop in front of the
children when he reached the altar.
Quietly, he crossed to the manger scene displayed by the side
entrance. He knelt before the crib,
folded his mittened hands, and bowed his whiskered head.
Mary and Joseph stopped
elbowing. The angels stopped pushing. The shepherds stopped whispering. The wise men stopped poking. Jay-Jay stopped jigging.
Everyone watched Santa.
After almost half a minute, Santa
stood. He looked at the children. He looked at Theta. He looked at me. Then he looked at Father George, and he
nodded.
Father George nodded back.
Santa left by the side entrance.
Theta never gave the signal. She closed her music folder and tucked it
under her arm. She straightened her
jacket, reached down, and sniffed the corsage pinned to her lapel. She walked over to the organ.
“Merry Christmas, Martin,” Theta
said and smiled. Then she quietly left
by the side entrance.
I stared after her. After a few moments, parents began to come up
and collect their children. Wings
disappeared under winter coats; halos, under stocking caps. Hugs and handshakes were exchanged. But the church remained as silent as snow.
I turned off the organ and began
packing my music up.
“Who was that?”
I looked up into the face if Dr.
Bingly.
“Who was that?” Dr. Bingly repeated, hooking a thumb toward
the manger.
I shrugged and smiled. “Santa Claus.” I picked up my music. “Make sure Matt comes out for the choir next
year, doc.” I began walking away. “He’s sure to have a shot at Joseph.”
The Hand of God
by: Martin Achatz
A
coming-of-winter day,
The air,
half-rain, half-snow.
A neighbor
stretches on a ladder,
Strings a
curtain of icicle lights
From his
eaves. Rain has already washed
The
shadows of maple leaves
From the
sidewalk, the way shadows
Washed
into dark puddles in Hiroshima
The first
rain after the bomb,
Rinsing
lovers off bedroom walls,
Children
off school sidewalks,
A priest
off church nave marble.
This
mid-November, war is in the air,
In the
dark, low clouds, in the news
Broadcasts
of body counts in Iraq.
Predictions
for snow tomorrow.
Tonight, I
will carry my daughter
To bed,
say prayers with her,
Sing her a
lullaby. She curls
Her small
fingers around my thumb,
Holds on,
leads me into the darkness,
Saying,
“Don’t worry, daddy.”
