a way to the manger

An impromptu retelling of the nativity story during a sacrament meeting talk provided a touching scene for Christmas. Cast members pulled from the congregation stood in awe as they were called forth to approach the manger scene. A five year old angel, barely taller than the podium, stretched a star-topped broom handle heavenward to show them the way. Taking their cues, and hats, three teenage wisemen aka "Prom King," "Burger King," and "Tinfoil Superhero" knelt next to the cradle, while shepherds holding a flagpole and mop handle stood watch. Unrehearsed, today's telling taught me there was a new way to come to the manger: Now, and as you are. Who knows when the Savior will come again into the world? Will I be ready, or "asleep, asleep"–like the trio of primary girls sang softly to those of us watching, and waiting, for our invitation to "come and adore Him."

sing, sing a song

Today I returned home an hour and a half after church was over. (No, I didn't need a special interview with the bishop or anything like that.) I was at choir practice. I know. Me. At choir practice. Something I told myself I would never do.

Now, I love music. I love the hymns. I love Christmas carols. But I do NOT sing in public. In fact, for most of my life, even during congregational hymns where there are over 250 voices to hide behind, I have been singing so softly for fear that someone would hear me.

I used to like to sing. But, like my voice, all that changed in Junior High. During dress rehearsal for the holiday program, Miss Summerhays, the choir director, had us line up in rows according to height. I happened to be just shorter than Mike Z, so he stood in front of me when we went on stage and stood single file, slightly turned in. I don't remember what the song was, but whenever we sang a particular high note in that particular song, Mike would elbow me in the gut. Perhaps he had an uncontrollable spasm or was just simply teasing, but whatever the "real" reason, what I decided in that moment is "I can't sing. And unless I want to get hurt, I'd better not let anyone hear me." So, for over twenty years, with the exception of being alone with the car radio, that pudgy, freckled faced 8th grader has been mouthing the words.

Recently, that decision made long ago created a dilemma for me. I received a personal letter from the ward choir director pleading for me to come and sing. Being relatively new in the ward, I dismissed it, rationalizing that this Sister clearly didn't know me or my voice. Then, coincidentally/inspirationally, as things usually occur, the lesson I had to prepare for Sunday School that week was all about sustaining others in their callings. I was reminded that when we raise our hands to sustain someone we are promising to do whatever they require of us, to assist them in fulfilling their assignment. As I was pondering on the topic, the letter from the choir director came into my mind. Drat. Then this thought followed closely behind: "if you didn't intend on supporting (agreeing to help) this sister, you shouldn't have raised your hand to pledge that you would. It is too late to put your hand down now. There are witnesses, you know." Drat, again. I mean, Fa-La-La.

Covenants trump insecurities.

my own Horatio Alger story

Wikipedia says:
Horatio Alger, Jr. was a 19th century American author who wrote approximately 135 dime novels. Many of his works have been described as rags to riches stories, illustrating how down-and-out boys might be able to achieve the American Dream of wealth and success through hard work, courage, determination, and concern for others. This widely-held view involves a significant simplification, as Alger's characters do not typically achieve extreme wealth; rather they attain middle-class security, stability, and a solid reputation — that is, their efforts are rewarded with a place in society, not domination of it. He is noted as a significant figure in the history of American cultural and social ideals, even though his novels are rarely read these days. As bestsellers in their own time, Alger's books rivaled those of Mark Twain in popularity.

When cruising around antique stores, rarely do I look in the old book section; but when I literally tripped over this book in the hallway crowded with collectibles, I had to buy it. I have heard the term "Horatio Alger story" before, but never knew I was one, until this week. As if it were a 250 page horoscope, I stayed up until 4 a.m. reading it, to see how "my life" would transpire.

In Alger's telling, "Jed, the Poorhouse Boy" is about a youth who attempts to leave behind the oppression of his upbringing and make his place in the world. In his quest, he crosses paths with both robbers and good Samaritans, and learns valuable lessons from each encounter. When the world seems to be conspiring against him, he does not sulk, dwell on his misfortune, or plot revenge against those who intentionally mean him harm....eventhough others would threaten to "step on his necktie." His humble confidence propels him forward. He is gracious in accepting help, and generous in offering assistance to others. Whether met with good or bad fortune, he remains true to his principles and his noble character remains unaffected.

To spoil the ending...it turns out that Jed was actually kidnapped as a child, and abandoned at the poorhouse in order to hide his true identity. In the nick of time, he is identified and reunited with his rightful inheritance and status as an English Baron. (So, pretty much, that is about the only part that fits.)

"Notwithstanding his accession to the ancestral title and estate, he has not forgotten the years during which he was known as 'Jed, the Poorhouse Boy.'"

I will try to do the same.