Christmases of my childhood were magical times and few things were more magical than the Christmas program, a time when kids sang badly to great applause and sometimes raucous laughter, especially when they got mixed up and, with giant cards, spelled out "Christmas Rats," instead of "Christmas star." The climax was the end of the program, when we each received a candy bag.
Danny Brown took up residence in the desk behind me at school one year, and in early December, his father forbade Danny from taking part in the Christmas program. Some said Mr. Brown was a real live atheist who was protesting a season gone mad with carols and mention of the Almighty.
So each Friday when we practiced, Danny sat in the balcony of our church. I pitied him. He would miss Sunday night's performance. And, worse, the sacred candy bags.
"Fairy tales," said Danny, when talking of Christmas. "A buncha clowns looking for an excuse to make more money."
The only Christmas song he knew was one his father made up: "O Come Let Us Ignore Him."
Miss Thomas, our choir director, was a large woman. Her arms weighed more than two of me, and she got quite a workout directing us. Her arms danced and bobbed, and we loved her for it.
Some adult made the mistake of stapling holly to the wall behind us, framing the edges of a huge banner that read "What Child Is This?"
Now holly has rather sharp thorns if you let it dry, and when we stood to sing, I eased a thorny clipping onto Beth Freeman's chair.
When we sat down, she lived to rise again. "OW! OW! OW!" She howled. "Why you little-" she whirled and pointed at me.
"Go to the balcony . . . now!" Miss Thomas ordered me.
I'd been there before. Danny was waiting there. As the children sang about angels and shepherds, I told Danny another version my mother had washed my mouth out with soap for using: "While shepherds washed their socks by night all seated on the ground / the angel of the Lord came down and passed the soap around."
He found this funnier than I expected, so I treated him to another: "We three kings of Orient are / Smoking on a rubber cigar / It was loaded, it exploded / Now we're on yonder star."
A volcanic laugh built within him, and he let out a yelp. Miss Thomas glared at us and brought her arms to a wobbly halt. "I've had about enough!" she yelled.
That's when I sinned greatly and said to Danny, "Then quit eating fudge."
It was too much for both of us. We hooted and howled. I buried my head, but Miss Thomas saw me and banished me from the building. I knew there would be no Christmas program that Sunday night for such a foolish a child as I.
But Christmas is a time for grace, my friends, and somehow my sins were lost in the joy of the season, and I was allowed to sing in the Christmas program.
The church was electric with squealing children and frantic parents, and Roy Butler was there with two banana boxes bursting with candy bags. Nuts. Hard candy. Plus, a mandarin orange and soft candies, if you were real lucky.
Danny Brown was there. Making faces at me from the balcony. I think Beth Freeman had even forgiven me. She recited from the gospel of Luke chapter two "And the angel said unto them, 'Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy . . .For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.'"
I'll never quite get over being forgiven at Christmastime.
And afterwards, an amazing thing happened. Never in all my years do I recall seeing an extra candy bag, for Mr. Butler was meticulous. But this year there was. And that night Danny Brown left the church with his very own candy bag.
You should have seen his eyes. It was a genuine Christmas miracle. Before he left, Danny smiled and slapped me between the shoulder blades, "Now we're on yonder star," he said.
It was Danny Brown's very first Christmas.
Phil Callaway is an author, speaker, and radio host. Visit him at philcallaway.com.
