Page 59 of If You Give a Grump a Christmas Tree Farm
“Oh, good. You’re here. We’re all ready to go. I’ve got your costumes. Follow me.”
She leads us to a room where we can change into our outfits.
On the way, we pass the three wise men, two shepherds and an angel decked out in some amazing costumes.
“Wow,” I whisper to Rebecca. “They take this seriously.”
“Of course they do.”
We split and enter two separate rooms. Inside mine, I find a preschool room with my costume laid across one of the tables. It’s a cream under-robe with a belt and an over-robe in dark brown open down the front, plus a drape for over my head.
Putting it on, I catch my reflection in a mirror over a hand-washing station against the wall. With my longer scruffy hair and beard, I completely look the part.
I step out into the hall, and wait with the others for Rebecca. When she finally comes out, she’s wearing a simple gown with a sky-blue drape that covers her head.
She looks beautiful in a serene way, and every bit the part of Mary.
I grin and spin in a circle. “What do you think?”
“You look great.”
“So do you.”
“This way, everyone.” The director leads us outside to the crèche. A wooden golden star hangs over it with a spotlight on it.
Lights shine from the ground, strategically placed along the edges.
It’s 7pm, and we’re doing this until nine. Once again, Amanda and Eric and their kids are covering for us, plus they’ve got the help of the three teenage boys I hired the other day.
“Okay, Mary, Joseph, you are here on these hay bales on either side of baby Jesus.” Between us, a wooden manger with straw holds a baby doll wrapped in swaddling.
“Shepherds, you’re over here, and the three wise men are on this side.” She directs the placement of everyone. “Angel, you’re up on this riser, watching over the scene.”
After we’re all in place, a church photographer gets some still shots of us.
“Mary,” the photographer says. “Could you hold baby Jesus for a few photos, please?”
Rebecca licks her lips and stares at the doll for a moment, then bends to pick it up and cradle it to her in its swaddling.
“Oh, that’s perfect,” the director says. “If you could pose like that tonight, that would be wonderful, maybe stroke his head and such.”
Rebecca swallows and seems uncomfortable, but smiles serenely at the child and strokes its head.
Once the photographer leaves, a line of cars slowly begins driving past to see us, and Christmas songs play softly in the background.O Holy Night,Silent Night,Away in a ManagerandWhat Child Is This?to name a few.
Toward the end of the night, I notice silent tears rolling down Rebecca’s cheeks. I don’t want to draw attention to it, but I frown, concerned.
“You okay?” I whisper, moving to stand behind her and the child in her arms, settling my hand on her shoulder.
She nods and dashes the wetness from her cheek.
The last fifteen minutes of the performance drag out, and when the last of the cars rolls away, the lights go out and the director approaches.
“Well done, everyone. Just superb.”
Rebecca hurriedly sets the doll in the straw and straightens.
“There’s coffee and pastries in the community room, everyone,” the director states.
