by
Ella Ruth Rettig
It
was June. I’d just gone through major cancer surgery that hadn’t been fully
successful. Once a month I’d travel 250 miles to Houston for chemotherapy, and
returning home I felt sick to death.
The
days were long. My husband Gene is a telephone repairman, and we live on a
hilltop in the farm country of central Texas. It’s beautiful country, but I had
no energy to go out in it. I’d just sit by the window and watch our horse
loping from the barn to the shade of the mulberry tree. I’d lost my appetite,
my hair, but, worst of all, at times I was too sick to care whether or
not I got well.
My
family tried to bolster my spirits, but I couldn’t seem to focus on anything.
Then I tried playing a little game myself. “Get rid of all those gloomy
thoughts, Ella Ruth,” I told myself. “Start thinking only good, bright
thoughts.” And when I asked myself what was good and bright, I came up
with—Christmas, my favorite time of year.
If
only,
I thought, if only I could feel that every day was leading me nearer to
Christmas.
But
what could I do? Start my Christmas shopping early? In summer? No, that would
be silly. Well, maybe I could plan a special celebration that would bring my
family all together. And, of course, it should honor Jesus’ birth. I had read
somewhere that cancer patients should set goals—and a Christ-honoring Christmas
became one of my goals.
What
I really wanted to do was bring the Christmas story to life for my
grandchildren. Maybe a Christmas play …
Yes!
But how? Where? With what? My mind and body were weak. How could I put a play
together?
I
prayed, “Father, I want to honor You, but You’ll have to show me how. I don’t
even know where to start.”
I
knew what the plot of the play should be—it was right there in Luke.
Then
I wondered who in my family could play what parts? Right away I saw that we had
a perfect Mary. My daughter Kristi was pregnant, due in February … and her
husband Bobby had a beard. He could be Joseph. The angels and shepherds? My
grandchildren.
There
saw my cast. But what would we do? Stand around in the barn? No. Somehow I
would have to come up with a simple script, and so I studied Luke 2 and
Christmas books for ideas. And costumes. Did I have the needed strength to make
them? I really didn’t want anybody’s help. I wanted this to be a secret between
the Lord and me.
“Go
slow,” I heard God saying, “and I’ll help you.” I did take it slow. During my
long afternoons, I would sit beside our old cedar trunk, rummaging through
mementoes of wonderful times.
There
was an old jeweled collar … how stylish I’d felt wearing this in the long-ago
days when my husband and I were courting. Now the collar could be a Wise Man’s
crown. A red and black afghan … here was a labor of love. My daughter Kristi
had made this for me just before her marriage. Now it would keep warm a king of
the Orient. Old elastic hairbands and old towels—sewn together they’d make
headdresses for the shepherds. My house took on new life with all the objects
in it calling out to be used.
One
day, though, while turning a pillowcase into a shepherd’s dress, I suddenly
suffered doubts. Was I setting myself up for a big embarrassment? What if my
children and grandchildren thought this was a stupid, silly idea? Would
six-year-old Jeremy take one look at his pillowcase and say, “Forget it”?
But
the longer I thought, the more sure I was that my family—they were all a bunch
of actors anyway—would play along wholeheartedly. So I hoped.
A
month before the holiday, I let my husband Gene in on my secret. I needed him
to make the “star in the East” and shepherds’ crooks in his workshop. And when
we made the drive to Houston for my chemotherapy, the fear and silence were a
little less terrible. Gene and I had pageant details to talk about.
Then
before I knew it, the holiday was upon us. I arranged to have all of our family
gather at our house for Christmas Eve. They suspected something when I told
them to wear warm clothes.
All
was going well until the day before, when a heavy rain began to fall. Would we
be able to get the manger in the barn? I forlornly painted a king’s crown, and
looked up now and then to see the rain come pouring down. The morning of
Christmas Eve, though, we woke up to a clear sky and a brisk north wind. By
noon, the way to the manger was dry.
During
Christmas Eve dinner I was a bundle of joyous nerves. I could barely eat. As
everyone began the after-dinner cleanup, Gene and I exchanged winks and then he
slipped outside to set up the star and arrange things in the barn.
Dishes
done, everyone gathered around me, waiting for me to spill my secret. But my
doubts were back. Would everyone try to back out? Handing out costumes and
printed instructions, I didn’t dare look up to see how everyone was reacting.
But then my son Mike quietly said, “Hey, Ma, I haven’t seen you this excited
since … in a long time.”
I
felt I’d just been given a big dose of bravery. When everyone was dressed, I
began to read from Luke 2 and the pageant at last began to unfold. Joseph and
Mary (“being great with child”) left the house and I told of their journey to
Bethlehem. With no room at the inn, they took refuge in the barn. We then
watched from the window as shepherds went out into the field. My
daughter-in-law Donna wore an old quilt top and a towel headdress, and her
little Jeremy and Kerrie wore old pillowcases.
Then,
“the angel of the Lord” (my oldest grandchild) came upon them. Tracy was
wrapped in a white bed sheet, with a tinsel halo nestled in her hair. I flipped
a light switch and “the glory of the Lord shone round about them.” More angels,
Little Kellie (Kerrie’s twin sister) and Stephanie, appeared. The angels
brought “good tidings of great joy” to the shepherds, and then they all headed
for the manger. I followed, leaving the Wise Men in the house. In the barn
everything was dark except for a gentle glow shining on Mary, Joseph, and the
Babe (a doll) in swaddling clothes. Angels and shepherds and my husband kneeled
or stood in the shadows, silent in the cold night air.
I
stood at the door and read the story of the Wise Men from Matthew 2. My
husband’s handmade “star in the East,” a flashlight hidden within a cardboard
star began moving along its cable toward the barn. The Wise Men (my two sons,
Ron and Mike, and our family friend David Taylor) followed the star across the
field, singing “We Three Kings of Orient Are.”
And
then the Wise Men were with us in their jeweled and (bath) robed splendor,
presenting their gifts as the angel sang “Silent Night.” Then the grandchildren
sang “Away in a Manger.” We all joined in on “Joy to the World.”
This
was all I had planned. But none of us could move. We all felt God’s warm
presence in this cold, dark barn.
My
oldest son Ron gently broke the stillness, saying, “I feel like we should
pray.” Ron led us in a prayer of praise, and we then sang another carol, and
then another, all of us wanting to hang on a little longer to this loving
closeness.
And
in that closeness I no longer felt like the sick one in the family—I simply
felt like one of the family. A good loving family. I’d left my fear behind. My
soul was full of light, a newborn light that God had been leading me to for six
months. It was the radiance of the manger, a radiance I’d helped God create.
So you see, if you’re stricken by illness or misfortune, set some goals. Find something worthwhile to do. And then do it. Make a Christmas pageant or an Easter vigil or organize a bake sale. If you know a trade, offer your services to those in need. To get better, you often have to go out of your way. Don’t be afraid. Go.
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