Guest Submission by: Cynthia
It's Christmas again and my three-year-old princess proudly leads (stomps) her classmates up the stage steps. Forget going to the far end chair - she plops down, in the middle, right in front of the nativity scene.
Her shadow, Danny, missing her cues to keep going on down the row, halts, then unhesitatingly claims the seat next to her.
The train wrecks behind him.
Her brain obviously decides her throne is neither comfortable nor worthy of her, so she hauls her legs up onto the chair, not lotus style, mind you, but up to her shoulders, unabashedly unaware the congregation now has a clear view of all her petticoats and remaining under - paraphernalia, all to the horror of her Puritan mother!
Naive Danny becomes enamored by the manger scene behind them and Baby Jesus is quickly stolen. I say naive because he has no idea what's coming. Princess will have none of it! She grabs the prize and, while slamming Jesus back into His proper place, she slugs Danny! He clearly doesn't understand his transgression, goes into sober shock, and starts bellowing for his chagrined parents.
How do I choose between my bright red cheeks, confession of all generational sins, motherly justice for all, and hysterics?
The congregational collective, "Awwh, poor man doesn't know what just hit him" and "This is way too cute" results in ripples of laughter throughout (what was moments before) this "sacred, hallowed, space."
I cannot help myself - the uproar is the first, and certainly not the last of this morning, as each "choir" takes its place in the "never will I forget this" drama.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star, I don't wonder who you are - it's you, my Princess and all the precious ones who are named our children.
(This is dedicated to the founder and primary contributor to At The Tip of The Quill, my Princess, who still fills me with wow, wonder, and whee!)