Don’t argue with Christmas miracles ~ December 22, 1988

David Heiller

SATURDAY, DEC. 17—A Christmas miracle in the making: Dee Zuk sits with nine children in the church pew, nine children under the age of six. At the front of the church, older kids are saying their parts for the Christmas program. They giggle and stammer and push and read from parts that they should have memorized. Director Mary Cronin leads them along, like Mike Ditka on the sidelines with the Chicago Bears, urging them to cooperate.

But Dee Zuk has those nine children lined up as quiet as the proverbial church mice which inhabit Faith Lutheran Church.

“Do you have a Christmas tree?” Dee asks.

“I have two trees, one upstairs and one downstairs,” Laura Horton answers, sitting on the right hand of Dee the Teacher Almighty.

“Do you have a dog?” she continues.

My son, Noah, answers that he has two, Ida and Binti.

Noah and Malika with their cousin Sarah during a family Christmas. These were little kids at the time of this performance! Extra cute and extra nerve-wracking.

“One for you and one for Mollie?” Dee asks. “No, both for me,” Noah answers.

Dee ushers the nine to the front of the church, like a duck leading her fledglings to water. Mollie, age three, sits next to Noah, who has yet to learn that it isn’t cool to sit next to your sister in a Christmas program.

Dee leads the little kids: “God sent Jesus down from heaven.” They all repeat after Dee, pointing their finger skyward, then arching it back to earth.

“Jesus taught us to love each other.” The kids fold their arms close to their chest, except for Mollie, who has her finger up her nose.

^“Jesus loves you and you and me.” They point their fingers at each other, then at themselves. Mollie takes her finger from her nose, puts it in her mouth.

“Because of His love, we are all His children.”

Their voices are strong with Dee leading them, but when she stops, they are struck dumb, which is another miracle for nine children under the age of six.

SUNDAY, DEC. 18—the miracle continued: Bev Peterson played Christmas hymns on the piano at the left side of the church, which filled up slowly but surely last Sunday morning, like churches do when children give their Christmas programs. Parents like me sat erect, on the edge of the pew; as if they were watching the Vikings play the Rams, and feeling just as jittery.

The piano rang out with Joy to the World, and the parents seemed to relax a bit. The 16-foot balsam Christmas tree next to Bev swayed at the top, as wind from the ceiling fan swished the tinsel back and forth. With the music, you could imagine that tree in the woods on a snowy morning, moving in a gentle breeze.

I sat in the fourth pew from the front, upon strict instructions from my wife, Cindy, who is also a Sunday school teacher. I didn’t know why I should sit so far up, but I don’t question Cindy on matters of religious faith and church etiquette. So I sat there, feeling conspicuous. I glanced over my shoulder and saw many other parents looking conspicuous. Their minds, like mine, were focused on their kids and the Christmas program. They were thinking: Would their children forget their lines? Maybe start crying, or pull up their dresses, or put their fingers in their nose? Maybe start the Christmas tree on fire?

Finally, the bell pealed, and 30 children marched forward, singing Oh Come, All Ye Children. They took their seats in the front, facing us. Cindy sat one pew ahead of me. We both stared at Mollie as she followed Noah up, jostling others to grab the chair on his left. Mollie saw us, smiled and waved. Noah joined her in waving. We both lowered our eyebrows and shook our heads. They stopped waving.

The program progressed, and it progressed well. Mary Cronin had worked a miracle that Mike Ditka would have been proud of. The older kids said their lines without help, holding the microphone like a stick of dynamite. They even showed some football razzle-dazzle, passing the mike quickly behind their backs to the next kid.

Then the pre-school part came. Dee knelt in front of her charges. The kids said their words loud and clear, while Dee whispered along. My eyes were glued to Mollie, hoping, even praying that she would keep her finger pointed to heaven instead of her nose. My prayer was answered. Their part ended, and it went perfectly.

And the miracles continued. The children sang Away in the Manger, and no one even noticed when Knute fell down in the back row. They sang Hark, the Herald Angels Sing, and no one blinked when Laura left her spot to confer with Dee in the front pew. Dee whispered a few magical words, and Laura returned to her place in front.

During Oh Christmas Tree, Mollie started to push Noah, grabbing him by the arm. Noah pushed back, and it looked like the start of a World Wrestling Federation match. Then Mollie glanced at her mom and dad. Actually, her head was turned by the force of our glares. In that instant it suddenly dawned why Cindy had asked me to sit at the front of the church. Our eyes blazed like lasers at Mollie. I’m not a pretty sight even when I smile, but the look I gave Mollie would have sent dogs howling for cover. With Cindy in front, Mollie suddenly was staring down a double barreled shotgun. She put Noah’s arm down, and looked straight ahead.

The program ended as we all sang Go Tell it on the Mountain. Then the little kids returned to their parents’ side, and you could almost hear half the congregation, young parents like me, breath a sigh of relief, and you could almost feel the other half, the grandmas and grandpas who have weathered this ordeal many times, bursting with pride.

Mollie slid in next to me. “Do you have any gum, Daddy?” she asked. I pulled a stick out, and broke it in half, giving part to her and part to Noah. Mollie started chewing, then cuddled up close. “I love you, Dad,” she said, looking at me.

“I love you,” I answered.

Maybe it was the Dentyne, maybe it was Christmas. Whatever it was, I didn’t care. You don’t question miracles.

A 1992 Christmas letter to Grandma ~ December 24, 1992

David Heiller

Dear Grandma:

Time for another Christmas letter. My fourth one to you.

The Christmas program at church went well, as you probably know from your balcony seat.

Somehow things always manage to go OK. The practices were another matter. In practice, no one knows their lines. At the program, everyone (well almost everyone) has them down pat.

A pre-Christmas program twirl.

In practice, the kids sing so loud you have to tell them to quiet it down, to SING, not shout. In the program, you can barely hear them.

Maybe it’s the costumes. Put a pair of angel wings on a kid, or a halo fastened to a bent coat hanger, and they act like angels. Put them in a bathrobe, with a dishtowel for a hat, and they are as humble as shepherds.

Except for Timmy. First he wouldn’t say his part in practice. Then his mother, DeeAnn, tried to coax him into his robe amidst the roar of dressing for the program. He crossed his arms in front of him and started crying. DeeAnn led him to the back room, by the furnace, her face as determined as Timmy’s. He looked like he was paying a visit to the proverbial woodshed.

Ten minutes later, DeeAnn and Timmy rejoined us as we waited outside the church doors. Tim was robe-less and tearless, and DeeAnn looked like she had just gone nine rounds with a four-year-old Evander Holyfield.

She must have done some serious plea bargaining, because when Tim’s turn came before the microphone, he said: “We’re so excited we’re going to tell everyone!” Maybe it wasn’t quite that clear, but he said it. You could tell by the sparkle in his mother’s eyes.

Doug played Joseph. He had the longest part, and didn’t trust his memory. He pulled out a piece of paper from the pocket of his bathrobe. It looked like a used Kleenex, and shook when he read. But read it he did, and well. He carried on the proud tradition of Josephs that date back to Brownsville, 1965 (my stellar role, you may recall), and beyond to that first Joseph, 1,992 years ago.

Some of the kids had so much confidence. Like Lisa, who recited her 83 words slicker than sleet. She’s had it memorized for three weeks, and she wasn’t about to get tongue tied now, in front of her mother, father, aunt, uncle, and 42 other relatives. She’ll probably remember that part for the rest of her life. Even if she wants to forget it.

Murphy’s Law 29-G states that someone must get the giggles in every Christmas pageant. This year Chrissy and Wendy got the nod. They came in a bit too early on the second verse of their song with Clint and Joe. It doesn’t take much to start a 13-year-old girl laughing in church. But they didn’t laugh long. They didn’t want any BOYS to out-sing them.

The rest of the music was good too. The children sang loud enough, and they didn’t shout after all. I sang with them a little bit, to get them going, but stopped myself. There’s nothing finer or purer than the sound of children singing at a Christmas program.

Grandma Schnick and Noah together at
Christmas, before these letters began.

As usual, Bev had the best song, “Jesus, Name Above All Names.” The music rolled like waves of water off her piano, and the kids rode the waves like celestial surfers. OK, maybe I’m stretching it. You know what I mean.

Noah and Mollie did all right. Mollie had on her white dress with a red ribbon. She didn’t have any wings, and didn’t need them, except for when she pointed to the back of the church when Donna came in.

Noah said his part without a hitch. He had called Connie, his babysitter, before the program, to see if she was coming. Called her up on the phone, like he wanted to take her to the Prom. Never mind that she’s 15 and he’s nine. I’m not sure what her plans had been for that Sunday afternoon but Connie being Connie, she came. She’s starred in a few of these herself, and not too long ago.

Wow, how kids grow up. I seem to notice it at Christmas programs. Boys and girls who were in Sunday School yesterday are suddenly changing into young men and women. I guess you saw that too.

I miss you, lots, Grandma. Till next year.
Love, David