It would go like this: Lights dim. Mary and Joseph silently walk down the aisle with the still and peaceful infant swaddled in a piece of white cloth. At the stage they would rest upon the top step (pictured above) and sit through "O Come, O Come Emanuel". Afterward, the baby's musical father (the worship leader's son and my husband) would take the bundle from Mary's arms and sing Joseph's lullaby.
We did two rehearsals like this. My two-month-old son was as good as gold (myrrh and frankincense) for these. He would coo in response to his daddy's singing. The choir would melt. My son even fell asleep in perfect synchronization to the song's ending: "...but for now dear child of mine--oh my Jesus, sleep tight."
Despite these perfect practices, I was nervous.
"What is our Plan B in case this doesn't go so well on Christmas Eve night?" I asked my mother-in-law.
"He'll do fine." she replied with no detectable hint of concern. I wanted a Plan B. We talked it over and came to a mutual conclusion that if baby Jesus became unangelic, I would take him out of the sanctuary during the song, console him during the wise men's dance, and have him back in time for Simeon and the old widow to sing about.
Christmas Eve came. My son was antsy. He'd always been strictly a breastfed baby, and this evening he had taken so long to nurse that I had to interrupt his session to get dressed and get us out there in time to walk out on our cue. I hid a pacifier in the folds of my costume-- just in case. I hoped it's unauthentic-looking use wouldn't become necessary, but I could tell before Joseph and I'd even gotten to the stage that this was going to be interesting.
We stood up with the lights beaming down on us and the room stuffed to capacity. Gideon squirmed in my arms, wriggling around into that tell-tell "I wanna nurse" position. I kept rocking him and turning him in ways that would distract him, but he was one tracked that night. And he was getting frustrated at me. I took out the only secret weapon I had brought-- the pacifier. Oh course it was pink... the only one I could find as we were heading out the door that day. As soon as I stuck it in his mouth he spat it out angrily. I watched his rejected friend bounce down both steps and settle near somebody's feet in the audience. Discreetly I sat so I could reach down for a smooth retrieval.
Gideon was pulling at my head covering, almost tearing it off a couple times.
"Why do I always let them talk me into these things?" I was feeling very warm under my Mary outfit and was recalling the time I was asked to play this role with my newborn and my timid opinion that baby dolls are so much more predicable and portable.
Baby Jesus did not take well to being handed to Joseph. Even though Joseph had a lovely lullaby he had memorized for him. He didn't want a lullaby! He wanted his dinner-- something he'd never been denied of or asked to wait for. I just stood there with my placid Mary face on thinking how I wished I were somewhere else. Or, wishing to be in a culture that wouldn't jaw drop if I arranged my fashionable headdress to become a temporary nursing blanket and gave the kid what he wanted. I've nursed in some public places before, but no, never on a stage during performance. I'm just not that much of a feminist--but I won't get into that. My son WAILED through the whole song.
At one point, Joseph even forgot a line of the song because he was so thrown off by all the noise. His mom, playing the guitar beside him, nodded at him to give the baby back to me. I stayed as long as this lovely but suddenly painfully long winded song required before I gracefully made my way down the stairs and out the nearest exit.
Behind me, I heard everyone applause thunderously. I wanted to kick them all.
