The Little Drummer Girl

Part 5

I ended up drifting past the church again. The parking lot, with the stage growing in its midst, was dark and empty, but the church itself was still blazing with light, even though the last Mass was over. The Parish of St. Cecilia looked as festive as anything else in our neighborhood. Golden lights outlined the exterior of the church—the buttresses, the arches, the angled roof and the cross on top, and almost every window. The trees in the churchyard were festooned with small, multicolored Christmas stars or parol, blooming like celestial fruit. More colorful parol hung in rows from the walls, while a magnificent electronic foil-and-plastic parol graced the stained glass window in the center, flashing its stylized green holly, yellow bells and red flowers arranged in a star shape in stately rhythm.

In the cold bleakness of evening the church glowed like a lighthouse, and I found myself dismounting and wheeling my bike inside. Propping my bike in a shed, I slipped inside and wandered among the pews, running my hand across the polished wood, and breathing in the lingering scent of flowers and candles. More white parol hung from the chandeliers and between the statues of the saints and angels. Clearly, whoever had been in charge of decorating the church had a fondness for Christmas stars.

On one side of the sacristy was the church’s pride and joy: the large Nativity featuring half a bamboo hut filled with straw and poinsettias, within which were gathered the terra cotta statues of Mary, Joseph, the Three Wise Men, a few shepherds, and a dewy-eyed angel, along with several sheep, a cow, and a donkey. But the focal point of all these was the terra cotta Baby Jesus lying in his manger. There was ample space at the foot of the manger; by tradition, this was where people put their offerings of flowers, baskets of fruit, baked goods or anything else they would like to give to the Savior.    

Above the hut, another electronic parol flashed like a traffic signal, silver buntings trailing down from its tail acting as its starry rays indicating the location of the Savior’s birth. But at the moment, my attention was caught by a plump figure in a light brown habit and a white coif, perched precariously on top of a small stepladder in front of the Nativity, reaching over to attach something to the roof of the hut directly above the manger. It wasn’t the most secure of positions, and when the stepladder wobbled, I darted forward and grabbed hold of it to steady it, murmuring, “Whoops, careful there.”

“Ooh! Oh my goodness! Thank you, dear, that was quite close.” The figure turned to look at me, revealing a round face, warm eyes in a nest of laugh lines, and the widest smile in the entire town. “Excellent timing, Zoey,” she said, laughing. “Can you imagine what would have happened if you hadn’t come? I don’t think the Holy Family would appreciate my usurping our Lord’s place. Why, I could never look half as cute in swaddling clothes!”

She laughed again, and despite the gray fog encasing me, I couldn’t help but laugh with her. Sister Beth had always been able to coax laughter out of even the dourest people, which was an odd gift to have when you were headmistress for many years of a preschool and kindergarten run by your religious order. Or maybe not. Generations of children, including my cousins and me, have grown up with memories of her quick smiles, her easy laughter, and her open kindness to everyone and everything. Sister Beth was as beloved an institution in this town as our family was. In fact, she often claimed she remembered every single child who’d passed through her school, and I had yet to see any evidence proving her wrong.

“Hi there, Sister Beth,” I greeted her. “What were you trying to do? And can I help?”

Her eyes twinkled. “Oh, I was just adding a finishing touch to our Holy Family’s dwelling place.” She flourished the object hanging from her hand. “This little one is supposed to go…right…here…” She stretched forward again to attach the object to the roof, only to have it fall right on top of the Baby Jesus. “Oh goodness, not again,” she sighed.