Christmas is a time of honoring and celebrating the birth of the Christ Child; a season of joy, love and togetherness. It can also be a time of laughter and telling old family stories. And with that thought I can’t help but remember one Christmas Eve many moons back when the Boggan family was in Colorado.
Eighteen inches of fresh snow lay on the ground in Steamboat Springs--Snow Town U.S.A. and big flakes spiraled down from a dark gray sky. But the Boggans were going to church. Our family bundled up in heavy clothes, piled into our l986 Nissan truck and “Gramma Wrent –a – Wreck” suburban. Even with four-wheel drive, the vehicles shimmied and slid on ice-glazed streets as we drove to worship.
When we got out of the car, our faces, ears and lungs burned from the bitter cold and our breath made small foggy clouds as thick as a herd of animals puffing out white masses of steam in a frozen pastureland. As we walked toward the sanctuary, everyone’s after-ski boots made crunching sounds, like cattle chewing on wads of hay; the females’ long coats brushed piles of snow. White-rimed icing piped our hems.
A sudden warmth enfolded us as we entered the church sanctuary where the choir and an organ pounded out the rhythmic song, “The Little Drummer Boy.” Because the small building was filled to capacity, we had to stand along a side aisle in the back, but down front we were able to see a manger scene and a young minister clad in what could have been a sheepherder’s rough robe.
Suddenly, bells jingled. Heavy footsteps sounded -- Santa Claus. He visited briefly, awakening the child in all of us, then dashed off to make his Christmas calls.
The room fell silent as the pastor read the second chapter of Luke. Then he closed the Bible and talked to the children as if he were a poor shepherd boy, telling the young ones how even the smallest gifts can matter. When he finished, the congregation joined in singing the old, familiar carols, and at the end of the service we all lit candles and sang “Silent Night.”
On the last stanza, the smallest worshipper with us, Christian, held his candle high, just above his wavy blond hair, aiming it in the direction of the Baby Jesus, asleep in the manger.
As the service drew to a close, the choir cupped their hands around short jagged candle flames and marched down the aisle toward the rear of the church. The blue-robed carolers had warm, yet knowing smiles on their faces, as if they understood the great mysteries of life and were willing to lead the rest of us toward those answers.
Emotions suddenly overwhelmed me. Unwanted tears streamed down my face; my whole body shook with the effort of holding in deep, wrenching sobs.
I received a sharp punch in the ribs.
Was I embarrassing my Mississippi kinfolks?
“Do you smell something burning?” my daughter-in-law Binnie Jo whispered.
A short sniff. “I do.”
“His hair’s on fire!” she shrieked. Her hysterical words were drowned by the choir as they sang, “Fall on your knees,” and headed out of the building.
Before I realized what had happened, my daughter-in-law snatched up four-year old Christian, and fled into the night.
The service over, the rest of the crowd hurried outside. The worshippers faced the south. They formed a half circle as if they were searching the sky, trying to glimpse a shooting star before it fell from sight somewhere over the mountain range.
“Oh, night divine…” a soprano soloed. Fanned by the wind, the candle flames leapt higher, then as if on cue, the worshippers jabbed their small flares into a large snowbank.
Sticking out of the middle I spied a silhouette that looked like a pair of rabbit ears cut out of dark paper; two small legs.
Unexpectedly, a pearly cloud of steam drifted heavenward from the pile of snow.
Our littlest worshiper had made the largest sizzle.
