Perfect love casts out fear.

Perfect love casts out fear.

Perfect love casts out fear.
Perfect love casts out fear.
Perfect love casts out fear.

Perfect love—
Perfect love—
Perfect love—

JUST SHOVES FEAR COMPLETELY OUT OF THE PICTURE!—

But—
But—
                   BUT—

When fear drives our lives—

When fear directs our choices—

When fear dictates our decisions—

PERFECT FEAR DRIVES OUT LOVE!

God is Love.

God is Love.

God is Love.

God is Love.

GOD … IS … LOVE!

Do we believe that?

Are we serious?

Or, when we say—

“GOD IS LOVE”

—is that just some sentimental metaphor?

Something we say
to make ourselves feel all warm and fuzzy?

“GOD IS LOVE”

Do we believe that?

Are we serious?

If—

“GOD IS LOVE”

—is just a metaphor,
is just a poetic lie we tell ourselves
to trick ourselves into feeling good about God—

then it’s easy to close our eyes
when someone whose theology is wrong
tries to trick us by pretending to love.

If—

“GOD IS LOVE”

—is just wordplay,
then it’s easy to turn away
when we glimpse a nurturing love
in the lives of those we don’t like,
those who scare us.

It’s easier to tell ourselves
that God is not there
(even though we also tell ourselves
that God is everywhere).

But—

“GOD IS LOVE.”

And if we take these words seriously,
if we choose to believe
that they mean exactly what they say—

Then, Oh, what a JOY this life becomes!

What a freeing and wondrous responsibility they give us!

If—

“GOD IS LOVE”

—how much less alone we are!

If—

“GOD IS LOVE”

—by what a glorious multiplication is our family increased!

If God is truly love, then—

Every time anyone soothes a frightened child,

God is there.

Every time anyone feeds the hungry,

God is there.

Every time anyone cleans the sickness off someone else,

God is there.

Every time someone defends the rights and dignity of another,

God is there.

God is there—

There in the giving of one’s self for another.

There in the caring for the weak and the disregarded.

There in the mere holding of someone who aches with the need to be held.

There in those actions of love.

God … is … there.

God is there, because—

God … is … love.

God is love.

God is the action of love.

God is the very act of the loving.

We are the arms with which God embraces the world.

We are the lips with which God kisses Creation.

Fear will try to scare us into fearing the world,

But Love will continue to sneak into our lives.

And if we let Love do that,

Fear will not stand a chance, because—

Perfect … Love … Casts … Out … Fear.

.

© John Arthur Horner, 2011

***

Little Blue

John Arthur Horner

 The little blue square looked around the deep darkness, trying to find something.

Several other little blue squares appeared.

These were joined by still more, filling the dark with little blue squares.

They gave off blue light. Ghostly faces floated in the air.

Suddenly the first little blue square started singing. Jingle Bells. With piano and actual sleigh bells.

“Dashing through the sn—”

“Hello?” said the ghostly face beside the little blue square. The other little blue squares all turned to look.

“We’re okay, Mom— Yeah, power’s out here, too.” The other blue squares floated away. “It’s okay, Mom—I think there’re candles around somewhere—  Mom— MOM! Don’t fritz out on me, Mom! … We’re hunting for the candles right now … Got some light to find the candles. … Mom! You know the blue light when you open your phone? … When it’s pitch black and a dozen kids open their phones, you get some light— But everyone looks like a ghost.”

A voice bullhorned through the darkness, “CANDLES!”

“Hanging up, Mom. Menie found some candles.”

“WELL, CANDLE! ONE CANDLE!”

“Menie!”

“DARNED HUGE ONE!”

“Menie! Short for Esmena? Your niece—named for you?”

“NEED SOME MATCHES!”

“Nickname, Mom. People called you Menie, right? … Really?”

“ANYBODY GOT MATCHES?”

“Gotta go, Mom. I’m needed—” She flipped the phone shut, re-opened it, and followed the blue light to the far end of the room, to the door in the far wall. She saw another ghostly girl. “Menie,” she said to the second, “whatcha find?”

“Don’t call me that,” said the second girl.

“What?” asked the first.

“Esmena, not Menie!” Menie took a breath. “Call me that again, and I’ll bop you.”

“Yeah, right, Menie.” Menie’s blue light suddenly flew at her cousin. “Hey!” shouted Menie’s cousin, “cut that out!”

“I told you not to call me that—Gabfest.”

“My name is Gabrielle!”

“Gabfest Gabby!”

“Menie!”

“ANYONE GOT MATCHES?” Menie’s voice boomed, then whispered, “Shut-up, Gabriola.”

“Menie—”

“You’re not my cousin anymore, and I’m not talking to you!”

“Menie— I mean, Esmena— I’ve got a lighter.”

“GABBY’S GOT A LIGHTER!” yelled Menie, and whispered, “Why do you got a lighter?”

“I—” Gabby remembered finding the lighter in the snow in front of the grocery store, but she wanted to be more mysterious than that. “I knew you’d need help lighting a humongous candle,” she said. “You know the girl scout motto, ‘Be Prepared.’”

“That’s the boy scouts.”

Gabrielle sighed deeply. “Does it matter, as long as I’m prepared?”

Her blue square disappeared. A small flame appeared in its place. “Where’s the candle?” she asked. Menie shined her phone onto a tall, thick candle.

The flame floated to the candle, then kissed the wick just barely sticking out of the wax.

The flame sputtered on the wick, came alive, and—

Something captured Gabby’s hand.

“Gabrielle, a cigarette lighter?” said a looming figure.

The cousins turned quickly. “Mrs. Pratner,” said Gabby, “we didn’t see you.”

“I imagine not, otherwise I doubt you’d be playing with fire in the church,” said Mrs. Pratner, holding out her hand and not smiling. She was a nurse and could be serious even when something was funny.

The Pratners were in charge of the church kids’ lock-in holiday sleepover. It was the first year in a long time that there were any kids besides the cousins.

Gabby and Menie looked at the kindly and very old face (Mrs. Pratner was at least 45). Gabby reluctantly released the lighter.

“We found a candle,” said Menie.

“I see that,” said Mrs. Pratner. “And many other things.”

The cousins looked. Four more, smaller candles surrounded the first. Mrs. Pratner pushed the lighter into her jeans.

The girls gulped air, forgot to close their mouths, and looked around the little room. Hundreds of foil stars crinkled overhead, reflecting the candlelight, and a V-shaped wooden box filled with straw stood on crisscrossed legs. Eight or ten different caps, with ears on top and strings at the bottom, draped over J-shaped wooden poles, where golden wings fluttered overhead. Clothes hung on hooks and hangers. Three richly painted boxes sat on a table under the three fanciest sets of clothes. Large golden wings floated above everything.

Gabby just stood there and simply said, “Wow,” while Menie turned to the door and yelled, “WE GOT TREASURE IN HERE!”

“Esmena,” said Mrs. Pratner, “no need to shout.”

Gabby started exploring the room, feeling the straw and trying on different caps. One made her look like a cow, and another like a sheep. Menie came back and tried on the rich looking hats. She looked like a queen or something.

Mrs. Pratner lifted each of the other candles to the tall one, touching the wick of each to the flame. The room suddenly got a lot brighter.

Other kids swarmed into the room, and Mr. Pratner brought up the rear, like a shepherd trying to herd his flock.

Mr. Pratner wasn’t quite as tall as his wife, and wasn’t as handsome as she was pretty, but he had a quiet, ready smile. The kids really liked them both.

“Found some candles?” said Mr. Pratner. The children noisily tried on clothes and explored the room’s nooks and some of its crannies.

“Mrs. Pratner, what is this stuff?” asked Menie.

Mrs. Pratner turned to her husband and nodded back to Menie. “Well, Esmena,” said Mr. Pratner, “these are costumes and props for when we used to have a Christmas pageant.”

Sammy stood next to Menie, and his eyes grew big. “The church used to have a contest at Christmas for who was the prettiest lady?”

“No, dummy,” said Gabby, “that’s a beauty pageant!”

“Gabrielle?” said Mrs. Pratner.

“Sor-ry,” said Gabby.

“No,” said Mr. Pratner. “You all know the story of when Jesus was born. A Christmas pageant is acting out that story. When we were your age, the church did it every year. In fact, that’s why I decided to teach drama.”

“HOW COME WE DON’T DO A PAGEANT?” shouted Gabby and Menie. “YEAH!” yelled the other kids.

The grownups looked at each other. “Well,” started Mrs. Pratner. “I guess,” said Mr. Pratner, “that it was because …” Mrs. Pratner said, “Twenty years ago all the church’s children grew up.” “Which meant we didn’t have anybody to be in a Christmas pageant,” said Mr. Pratner. “Except for grownups,” said Mrs. Pratner, and her husband said, “And a grownup’s job is watching the Christmas pageant.”

“And boss the kids,” mumbled Gabby. Menie shushed her.

“Well …” said Sammy, “couldn’t we … do one … this year?”

“YEAH!” shouted the others.

Mr. and Mrs. Pratner looked at each other again. She raised her eyebrows, and he shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll have to check with the pastor, but I don’t see why not.”

The children cheered.

“But, shouldn’t we practice?” whispered Alex. She was kind of shy.

“The word is rehearse, dummy,” said Menie.

“Esmena?” said Mrs. Pratner.

“Sor-ry,” said Menie.

“Shouldn’t we rehearse?” asked Alex.

“That’s part of it,” said Mr. Pratner.

“Let’s do it now!” shouted Sammy.

“YEAH!” shouted all the rest (except for Gabby and Menie, still pouting for having to apologize).

The Pratners looked at each other. “It would be something to do till their folks get here,” Mr. Pratner whispered. They turned. “Okay,” they said together.

They had the children gather all the costumes and props. Mr. Pratner took the tall candle, and Sammy and Alex each took a smaller one. Menie and Gabby wanted to carry the others, but Mrs. Pratner made them carry the manger (the box with the straw). Mr. Pratner took the lead, with Sammy and Alex in the middle, and Mrs. Pratner bringing up the rear. They paraded up the stairs, headed for the sanctuary.

They put the candles on a table, which made quite a bright light—even brighter when Sammy and Alex found more candles.

Mr. Pratner pointed to where the manger should go. Mrs. Pratner helped everyone put on their costumes, and Mr. Pratner showed how to wear the sheep and cow caps and walk on all fours. When he wore the donkey cap and hee-hawed, everyone laughed. Deciding who would play which part went quickly … until Mary. Menie and Gabby both wanted to be Mary and started fighting. Mrs. Pratner asked, “Should a fighter play Mary?” She looked around.  “Alexandra, will you play Mary?”

“Alex,” said Alex, then nodded. Mrs. Pratner smiled.

Mr. Pratner said, “Animals—get around the manger!”

The animals got on their hands and knees and pretended to eat hay from the manger.

Mr. Pratner said, “Mary and Joseph were tired from their long trip, and the baby might come at any time. Every inn was full. Then Joseph saw one last inn. He went and knocked on the door.”

There was a knock on the door. There was an actual knock on the church door, really fast and hard.

Everyone stopped. The knocker knocked again. Mr. Pratner went and opened the door.

A man stood there, bright starlight behind him. “Can you help us?” his voice was scared. “Our car broke down! My wife’s ready to have our baby, and the only light I saw was from your window!”

Mrs. Pratner hurried to the door and went with the men to a car stopped in a snow bank right in front of the church. They helped a woman come inside. Esmena and Gabrielle whispered together, then went to the hall and got their coats. They followed Mrs. Pratner and the men into the sanctuary with the woman, because that was the only place with light. Mrs. Pratner took her down to the front pew, and the cousins laid their coats so she could have something soft to sit on.

Gabrielle opened her phone and punched a number. “911?” she said. “THE CHURCH AT OSAGE AND SOUTHSIDE! LADY’S HAVING A BABY!”

Right then the woman roared and scared just about everyone. “She’s not waiting for an ambulance!” said Mrs. Pratner, kneeling in front of the woman. “Sam and Alex—get soap, water, and towels! John—you, Gabby, and Menie— get the kids to the classroom!”

Mr. Pratner left quickly, grabbing a candle, and herded the kids into the classroom, Gabrielle and Esmena out in front. Suddenly they heard the woman shouting louder than Gabby, trying to keep control of the sounds. This scared some of the children, but most of them crowded up against the door, trying to listen.

… Then they heard a baby cry. He wasn’t nearly as loud as his mother, but loud enough to tell the world he wasn’t really pleased about being woke up like this.

Esmena whispered, “This is just about the coolest thing that ever happened in church!”

Mrs. Pratner cleaned the baby and wrapped him in one of the towels. She gently handed him to his mother as Mr. Pratner brought the children back. The two cousins and the rest sat on the steps between the manger and the new mother with her baby. Gabrielle leaned to her cousin and whispered, “Yeah, this is the coolest thing that ever happened here.”

Before long the ambulance arrived and took the baby and his new parents to the hospital. Then Gabrielle’s and Esmena’s and the rest of the kids’ parents arrived.

The kids didn’t want to leave, and when the lights came back on, the parents thought about it for just a minute and said okay and went back home.

The kids stayed up really late, talking with Mr. and Mrs. Pratner about what had happened. And about the bright star some of them saw.

The next day Esmena and Gabrielle got new coats.

They rehearsed every day that week, and Saturday night the church had its first Christmas pageant since before any of the children in it had been born. Gabrielle made an announcement telling everyone to turn off their cell phones.

Everybody who saw it said they had never seen a Christmas pageant seem so real.

© John Arthur Horner, 2009

(Mary Magdalene Speaks Her Joy)

An Easter Monolog

(for Sally Eaton) 

John Arthur Horner

[MARY MAGDALENE comes running into the sanctuary. She stops, bends over, and carves big hunks of air into her lungs. Then she looks at the congregation and recognizes them as one person.]

He—  [Three big breaths.]  He’s—  [Two more.]  I mean you—  You won’t—  He’s—  I mean, you won’t—  It’s—  You’ll never—

[She’s lost her breath again.]

It’s, I mean, it’s, it’s—  Wow! It’s just … Wow! I mean, wow! He’s—

[Calms ever so slightly.]

I, I was just there! I mean, I was just there, and I can hardly—  I was—  He—  I mean, you’re just not going to believe it!

Do you—  Do you know—  Do you realize what, what, what has happened? What this means?

It’s, it’s, it’s—  I’m—  I’m, I’m, I’m—  I’m at a loss for words!

No, I mean it! Words fail me. They utterly fail me. It’s—

[Strangely joyous, considering the words she is speaking.]

I was lost. I was low. I was turned, twisted and mired in aching depths—of anguish, despair. Lost. Bereft. Swallowed by the darkest blackness. Alone. So alone, bitterly alone. My soul was raw—bruised, torn, shredded. Alone. I hid in the darkness—no light, no warmth, no caring, no love.

It was gone. The love was gone, fled—no, driven from the world, cut off by indifference, a thick wall of loss and pain.

The love was gone. Gone

I wandered. Lonely. A child, orphaned from the love of the world by the brutality of the world. The seven devils that had been driven from my soul once again seeking entrance in. The cross on Friday, the dull grey smear of my life in the less than two days since then. Wandering through hours, vague and out of focus, taking no nourishment beyond the screaming pain that devoured me.

[A special memory. She accelerates in the telling.]

Mary—no, no, that’s me. I—no, Mary and … Joanna … and I gathered our spices in the early, early hours before the rising of the sun in its ignorance, dragged our hearts to the tomb, that tomb, hoping to persuade someone among the sleep-deprived soldiers to roll the stone that blocked the way to the unprepared body.

There had been so little time, and the storm blocked the sun, so we could not tell its setting, and the Roman legions do not care to know our ways and the necessity to prepare the body, and …

I ached from exhaustion and loss. I—

[A long pause.]

There were no sleep-deprived soldiers. They were all glutted with sleep, thick with slumber.  [Beat.]  And there was no need for them to move the rock. It no longer blocked our way

And there was no body.

There was the burial cloth, neatly folded, lying on the table of his death.

But there was no body.

Joanna and Mary, running to the men, John and Peter, pushing me aside, staring at the emptiness, leaving me without a word.

Leaving me with the emptiness. Leaving me.

There was this man in the garden. And he—  He—  This man was—  He was—  He smiled at me and said my name and he—  He …

[A huge smile blossoms on her face.]

I guess the sun wasn’t so ignorant after all.

[She looks directly at the person who is the audience.]

Guess who’s back?

[She smiles and laughs and runs out of the sanctuary, yelling behind her as she goes—]

Sorry for running, but the others need to know!

© John Arthur Horner, 2010

(Mary Magdalene Speaks Her Grief)

A Good Friday Monolog

 John Arthur Horner

[A flickering light. MARY MAGDALENE walks slowly in front of the congregation. She is stunned, and at first takes no note of anything. She stands several moments in silence, focusing on nothing, simply holding her candle or lamp, flickering in front of us. Finally she speaks, to herself, to the universe—it’s hard to tell. Softly ... lost—trying to find whatever it is she has lost, perhaps herself.]

He is gone.

[Long pause.]                         

He is gone.

[Another pause. Finally she seems to notice at least some of the congregation.]

My friend …  [Short pause.]  My friend is gone. Gone. Dead. Murdered.

He is gone.  [Realizing.] He is gone!

The sun will never shine again. We are lost in a world of darkness, of blindness, and the sun will never shine again, even in its ignorance.

How can we live? How can we even live, when life itself has died? When the joy of life, the love of life, the life of life has died?

He saw the nadir of my life, the destitution of my days. He saw me at my worst, and in that worst he was able to find my best.  [Straight to the congregation.]  My life stumbled its way, seven devils in its heart, each striving to dominate me, to corrode my soul, to defeat my heart.

And he found me. He, who knew me better than ever I have been known, he wrestled my devils and drove them from my heart.  [Short pause.]  Or he guided me and strengthened me as I faced them.  [Short pause.]  Or the love he lived for each of us poured into my soul.  [Pause.]  Or …

The devils fled.

I don’t know— I don’t know what he did. I don’t know. But my life before he did what he did and my life after are two separate lives. My heart was no longer captured—my life no longer entangled.

I saw the sun once again. I lived in its light and its warmth. I sang, and I danced, and I followed him

[Directly to the congregation.]

 Do you know what it is like finally to walk in the sunlight, when you have only ever groped in the darkness of the night? Do you know— Do you know what it is to awaken and open your eyes to health, when you have slept through fevered night terrors? Do you know— Do you know what it is to discover the new morning that is love, when all you have ever known has been the dusk that is indifference and the midnight that is despair?

Do you know?

Not even a week ago the Temple walls sounded and echoed with the shouts and hosannas of children who laid down palm fronds and the clapping and cheering of their parents, sweeping out their cloaks so the donkey he was riding would not misstep as he entered triumphantly into Jerusalem!

And today!

Today they called for his death—for his crucifixion! As if he were some criminal!

I tried. I tried with all I had to make my voice heard, to call out his name. But I could not drown the voices of the toadies of Caiaphas, who called out the name “Barabbas! Give us Barabbas!”

That this murderer should live, should be freed, while the son of life should be condemned to die upon a Roman cross, like some run of the mill thief!

[Very brief pause.]

[Softly.]  Where is God?  [Beat. Loudly.]  Where is God? How can the God of creation stand dumbly by while creation itself turns in upon itself, watching the fall of darkness, the death of the sun?

They ran away! They all ran away! Judas betrayed him, and Peter denied he even knew who he was! Only John has dared show his face. [Loudly.]  What is this world coming to? He was whipped and mocked and forced to carry the cross of his death to the place of his death!

WHERE HAS GOD GONE?

[Very softly.]

Where has God gone?

As they hammered the spikes into his flesh, as they hoisted him up into place, as they thrust the spear into his side, as they rolled dice for his clothes and mocked him, daring him to come down from the cross, as he prayed for us and it was finished—

Where did the living God of Israel go?

My friend has died, and the sun will never rise again.

[Directly to the congregation.]

What will I do?

[She looks at us, numb with grief, then blows out her lamp. She leaves.]

© John Arthur Horner, 2007

The following story appeared in a somewhat different and shorter form in the Christmas anthology, Once Upon a Christmas. This is the final (at least for now), complete version of the story.

I hope you enjoy it.

Merry Christmas,

John

====================================================

The Princess, the Evergreen, and the Christmas Bear

 ***

Princess Doris was upset. The palace Christmas tree this year was puny! It was dry! You could see the needles falling like snow while they were trying to put it up!

What were her parents (King Bert and Queen Lucy) thinking? Christmas with a puny tree that was going bald right before your eyes?

Prince Sam was Princess Doris’s best friend (though they wouldn’t say so). He lived across the river in a country called Rokae. Princess Doris hadn’t seen the Rokaen palace Christmas tree yet, but she just knew that it was huge and thick and richly green. So why couldn’t Wurro have a tree like Rokae’s?

The doorbell rang. (The palace had a real bell, a huge silver one with figures of heroes trying to sneak out of the sides, and when someone rang it, it didn’t give a teeny-tiny ding-dong—it boomed out DONG-DONG-DONG!)

Well, someone had to do something about it. Not the doorbell, the tree.

The palace entryway reached up through the second floor, where a large walkway looked down on the big door, not that far from Princess Doris’s bedroom. When she heard the doorbell (it was hard not to), Princess Doris shuffled out in big fluffy dragon-slippers to see who it was. She looked down, over that puny tree, which shed more brown needles even as she breathed on it, and saw that King Rick and Queen Gaby had arrived with a not-smiling Prince Sam.

Princess Doris stopped shuffling, raced back to her room, changed her clothes, didn’t brush her hair, and scampered down the stairs before another needle had the chance to fall from the Puny tree. She almost nodded to the queens and kings as she blurred past, grabbing Prince Sam, spinning him out the door with his coat only half on, while shouting, “Come on!”

Prince Sam stumbled and fell in the snow. “Doris,” he sputtered while trying to get up, “what are y—”

“Princess Doris!”

“Doris!” shouted Prince Sam, finally pushing himself out of the snow, “I’m a prince! I don’t have to call you Princess anything!”

“Oh, stop being silly, Sam, and come on!” said Princess Doris, straightening her crown over her stocking cap, before dragging Prince Sam through the yard and gate and down the street, heading for the town’s wall and the forest that lay on the opposite side from the river. Sometimes it was easiest just to go ahead and do what Princess Doris wanted. Prince Sam walked beside her, grumbling sounds but no words.

“Where are we going?” he finally whispered, very loudly.

“To get a Christmas tree.”

Prince Sam stopped and stared at her. “You already have a tree.”

“That is not a tree! It’s a fire hazard!” she said—well, okay, shouted—dragging his arm till he started walking again.

Prince Sam sighed and pulled his collar tighter. Snowflakes were trying to sneak down his neck.

They walked silently through the town, out the gate, across the fields, and into the forest. Prince Sam started to ask some questions, but didn’t. Princess Doris’s answers would probably be frustrating or silly. Prince Sam sighed a lot and didn’t say anything.

As they walked into the forest, Princess Doris started looking carefully at the trees. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Prince Sam watch her while she looked. She walked around each tree, felt its branches, and smelled its needles. Every time, though, she stopped a moment, then shook her head and walked quickly away, then went deeper into the forest, searching for the next tree.

Tree after tree after tree, deeper and deeper, and darker and darker. It got late. Princess Doris heard Prince Sam’s stomach gurgle. (King Rick and Queen Gaby had promised that King Bert and Queen Lucy would serve a nice big breakfast, so he hadn’t eaten all day.) Princess Doris kept leading them deeper into the forest, and the snow wasn’t just coming down in nice fluffy flakes anymore—it was coming down the size of the doilies on the back of a huge chair.

Prince Sam suddenly kicked a snow drift. His frozen toes hit a rock.

Princess Doris shook her head and walked away from yet another perfectly good tree.

Prince Sam did something almost no one ever did with Princess Doris. He yelled as loudly as he could. “Okay, Doris—”

“Princess Doris!”

“Oh, come off of it, Doris! You’ve poked and kicked at least a hundred perfectly good Christmas trees—”

“I haven’t even looked at twenty—”

“And you can’t even count! I haven’t had anything to eat all day, and this is stupid! It’s just stupid! And so are you! You’re stupid, and I don’t care if we ever find a stupid Christmas tree for your stupid palace!”

Prince Sam stopped. He was out of breath, and no one had ever said “stupid” to Princess Doris that many times without having to get up from the ground.

She wasn’t even looking at him. She was staring at another tree and walking towards it.

Princess Doris stopped a foot away and gently reached out. “This is the one,” she whispered, touching it.

Prince Sam stepped beside her. It was a nice tree.

But how could they even chop it down?

Princess Doris reached inside her coat, pulled out a small hatchet, and started chopping.

It took an hour for the tree to fall.

How could they get it to the palace?

Princess Doris grabbed the two lowest branches and started dragging. The tree moved about three inches. She motioned to Prince Sam. He grabbed branches on the other side. It moved five inches. After 25 minutes they got it about three yards—and they started arguing.

They called each other names. (I can’t tell you which names—I don’t want your parents to wash my mouth out with soap.) They made a huge noise—yelling, screaming, pushing each other into the snow, even throwing snowballs at each other.

Until they heard the roar.

Actually it was the second roar, but they had been arguing so loudly that they didn’t hear the first one.

A huge bear walked into the clearing and raised up on its hind legs.

The two children grabbed hold of each other.

The bear roared again, stepping towards them.

And said, “YOU KIDS KEEP IT DOWN! THERE’RE BEARS TRYING TO HIBERNATE HERE!”

Princess Doris shook with fear, but walked right up to the bear and said, “I’m Princess Doris, and I command you to carry this tree back to the palace!”

The bear leaned down so its face was right in front of hers. It roared another roar—a roar so loud that it blew off Princess Doris’s hat and crown and the ribbons from her hair.

She started to say something else, but Prince Sam stepped to her and simply raised his finger, turned to the bear, and said quietly, “Hi. I’m Sam.”

“ST— ” said the bear. “UHM, UH, BRUNO. FOLKS CALL ME BRUNO.”

“Bruno? It’ll be a lot easier for everyone if you just do what she says.”

Bruno looked at Princess Doris as she was putting her hat back on, and he thought a moment, then nodded. Princess Doris adjusted her crown, then pulled a rope from her coat and tied it around the lowest branches of the tree and around Bruno’s shoulders. He strained against the rope until it was straight and taut. Bruno struggled against the weight of the tree, lifting a huge front paw as his other three paws and legs pushed into the snow, and then slowly, very slowly, Princess Doris’s big Christmas tree started to follow him.

With every step Bruno took, his lead paw would dangle like it had no muscles at all. Until it plopped down into the snow again and would push off with all the strength you ever thought a bear could have. Dangle, plop, push. Dangle, plop, push—step by step, Bruno dragged the tree.

The snow came down harder and harder as the three of them headed back through the forest.

“It’s absolutely the most gorgeous Christmas tree ever! … Mom and Dad and everyone at the palace will be so glad that I found it! … It’s so much better than that PUNY tree that the Lord Chancellor picked out! … Hurry up! I don’t want it to freeze!” Princess Doris pretty much talked all the way back through the forest.

She was so pleased with the tree and so upset with how long the trip back was taking, that she didn’t even notice that Prince Sam and Bruno tried several times to speak with each other. (How often do you get the chance to talk with a talking bear?)

The sun was wasting no time in going down, and Princess Doris kept yelling at Bruno “Go faster! Go faster!” He put up with it until they cleared the forest and for about another hundred yards … then he bit through the rope, roared at her one last time, said, “GOODBYE, PRINCE SAM—IT WAS NICE TO MEET YOU,” and walked back into the forest.

“You’ll be sorry!” Princess Doris shouted. “I command you to come back!” Of course that didn’t work, and Bruno just kept walking.

Princess Doris felt like crying, but Prince Sam was there, so she couldn’t.

They just looked at each other, shivering … then saw a small cabin in the distance. They started dragging the tree, and—

Sleigh bells?

A sleigh pulled by reindeer jingled across the field, and the old man with a white beard driving stopped it beside them. He was dressed all in fur (most of it red), from his head to his foot. He laughed and laughed. “Need a ride?” he chuckled.

Princess Doris looked at Prince Sam, who raised his eyebrows. “Yes, please,” she said. Her parents had warned her about riding with strangers, but she was sure she knew him from somewhere.

The man got down, tied the tree to the sleigh, helped them in, and headed towards the cabin, all the time laughing his delightful laugh. “How on earth did you get this big tree out here in the middle of the field?” he asked.

“A bear helped us,” said Prince Sam.

“A bear?”
“Yes, sir. A talking bear.”

“Oh,” said the old man. “Must’ve been Bruno.”

“You know him?” asked Princess Doris.

“Aren’t that many talking bears in these parts,” chuckled the old man. “Had to be either Bruno or Steve.”

He waited a moment, then said, “Kind of late for Christmas tree hunting.” That’s when Princess Doris explained why they had needed this particular tree.

The old man started to hum Christmas songs as the reindeer pulled them to the cabin. Prince Sam joined in quickly, and finally Princess Doris did. When they finally arrived, the old man unbridled the reindeer, and they headed to the feed trough in the corral that stood by the cabin. Finally he untied the tree from the sleigh and they headed into the cabin.

“Now,” the old man said, after they had gotten their coats off and he had rekindled the fire, “what would you like for supper? I’ve got leftover spaghetti and meatballs and leftover chili.”

Prince Sam said, “Chili,” and Princess Doris said, “Spaghetti and meatballs!” (her very favorite dish.)

The old man chuckled and started warming the food. “What do you two want for Christmas?” he asked while filling their bowls.

Prince Sam dug into his chili and smiled. “I’d like a drawing pad and different colored pencils!” he said.

Princess Doris looked to the side as she bit into one of the wonderful meatballs, and mumbled something quietly. “I’m sorry, Doris,” said the old man, “I couldn’t understand you.”

She chewed her meatball, swallowed it, then whispered, “I’d like a pony.”

The old man smiled. “Well,” he said, “you’ve probably scared the dickens out of your parents, but I can tell you’re usually good kids.” He raised his eyebrows. “Get permission next time.”

After they ate, he gave them hot chocolate and blankets, and they promptly fell asleep by the fireplace.

Early the next morning sunlight quietly sneaked into the cabin and nudged Princess Doris’s eyes. She walked across the bearskin rug that lay between them and shook Prince Sam awake.

The rug grunted when she stepped on it.

“Bruno?” said Prince Sam.

“YOU KIDS JUST WON’T LET A BEAR SLEEP.”

“What are you doing here?”

“NICK NEEDED TO LEAVE, AND DIDN’T WANT YOU TWO HERE ALL ALONE.”

“Nick?” asked Princess Doris.

“THE OLD MAN. SAID TO HELP YOU WITH THE TREE, TOO. DON’T FORGET YOUR GIFT,” he said, nodding Prince Sam to the art supplies on the table.

When they went out and Prince Sam tied the tree onto Bruno, the bear turned to Princess Doris. “WHY ARE YOU SO QUIET? YESTERDAY I COULDN’T GET YOU TO SHUT UP!” he growled.

“Well,” mumbled Doris, “Prince Sam got what he wanted.”

“CAN YOU WHISTLE?” Princess Doris nodded. “THEN DO IT!” She gave a half-hearted whistle. “OH, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE! LOUDER!” She whistled louder.

And a pony came trotting from behind the cabin. Princess Doris smiled.

The people of the town were surprised when they saw Princess Doris coming toward the gate on her pony. Not as surprised as they were about Prince Sam riding a bear pulling a huge Christmas tree (which looked gorgeous when it replaced the puny one).

The soldiers came back from looking for them three hours later.

The kings and queens grounded their children for three weeks.

When she was finally let out, Princess Doris went back to thank Nick, but the cabin was deserted.

She left Bruno a jar of honey.

[SARAH enters, stands for a moment, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.]

You know, it doesn’t matter how long you wait, you can never know how what you’ve been waiting for will turn out.

Paltiel and Esther married young and started their family before celebrating their first anniversary. With the twins, Esther had seven children in eight years. Five survived to adulthood, and then left Bethlehem. And Paltiel and Esther continued running the inn

Two years after the youngest married and left, Esther left as well.

Paltiel grieved deeply with Esther’s death, but continued to run the inn, learning to cook—after a fashion.

Judah and I had never been blessed with children in our marriage. It was a silent ache rarely spoke of. When Judah died, the ache deepened. I had no money and no children to give me support, no family with whom to live.

I have said that Paltiel had learned to cook, but that was the voice of generosity. He often cut and burned his fingers. While you could fill your stomach with his food—it was best if your stomach had been empty for the better part of a week.

He hired me to cook at the inn. Over the time that followed we became friends, and our friendship grew to affection, affection to … to love.

We married three years ago.

While I had known his children, it was while they were still children, and now they have children of their own.

But today, Caesar has blessed Paltiel and me by bringing all of the family back here to Bethlehem.

To our inn.

All the grandchildren.

All 27 of them. No less than three to a bed. Family coming out of our ears.

All of a sudden I’m Grandma.

Don’t get me wrong. I love it. I love them. I’ve been wanting a family of my own since I was a little girl.

But there’s no room at this inn for any paying customers.

It’s wearing me out. The kids … are everywhere. And they keep going all day long.

I look forward to my bed this night, to sleep, because—

Because I think I’m sleeping for two now.

I know! At my age! And yet—

Well, breakfast comes very early at this inn. I must get to bed. I can’t wait.

[Pause. She hears something and turns to where she entered.]

Now, who could that be? We have no place to put anybody at this inn!

[She leaves to answer the door.] 

Copyright © John Arthur Horner, 2009

Just wondering.

John

[REUBEN enters and calls back offstage.]

Yeah, baa, baa, baa! Bah!

[Warms himself by the fire. Pause.]

I hate waiting.

The night grows darker and deeper, and still I cringe by the fire, aching with the cold, listening to the sheep warming themselves against each others’ fleeces under the star-frozen night—waiting alone.

Waiting for those two to stumble there way back here.

[Pause.]

It shouldn’t take this long.

[Pause.]

I’m still not completely sure why they had to go wherever it was they had to go.

[Pause.]

It’s lonely being a shepherd. [Short pause.] It would be easier if I were a better cook.

I miss the talks. The stories that pass the night. Arguing about the prophets.

Isaiah’s my favorite, I think. No one understands being a suffering servant better than a shepherd who works for someone else. “For unto us a child is born—unto us a son is given. And the government shall be—”

[Searching.] “And the government shall be … upon … upon his shoulder—” “Shoulders—” “Shoul—”

[Stronger.] “And his name shall be called Wonderful—

“Counselor—

“The Mighty God—

“The everlasting Father—

“The Prince of Peace—

[Pause.]

Man—they just don’t write scriptures like they used to.

Not sure exactly what it means, but that’s not unusual for a prophet. Does make me feel better, though.

[Pause. Suddenly.]

I need more wood for the fire.

[Starts off. Pause.]

Don’t really much care for the waiting, though.

[Heads off, humming "For unto us" from Handel’s Messiah.]

I got in.

But because of my family’s move, I wouldn’t be going to Lowell where my friends from Washington would attend. My sister and younger brother would attend McKinley, which was a block and a half from our new house, but I would ride my bike a couple of miles each morning to attend Hillcrest–where I knew absolutely no one.

I quickly made some good friends, some from the math program, some not. A few remain friends to this day.

I sat in the next to last spot in the center row of Mrs. Baldwin’s class. There was a girl who sat at the desk right behind mine. She had a shy smile that didn’t come out that often, and she looked down a lot and rarely talked. She had curly blonde hair and was pretty, especially when she let that smile come out.

She always brought her lunch, and only had a few dresses that even in the early sixties were out of style. They may have belonged to someone before her, perhaps an older sister. They were always clean and pressed, but they were old.

When we’re kids, we can be mean. We can be mean at any age, but something about meanness from someone of an age that should be given to innocence and happiness is especially striking.

She was the target of a lot of meanness.

Fifth graders have a talent for this stuff. We zero in and target those who are different, those who are least able, or least apt to defend themselves. When we’re in the fifth grade we make them have fleas, or cooties, or some other easily transferred malignancy that we can “get” just by being touched. Not by the person who “has” the fleas, but by a friend who thinks it’s funny, who wants to lessen us as a joke.

I remember that Mr. Nelson, our principal, gathered all of the fifth grade boys together and talked to us about this very thing, calmly, not naming any of us as culprits, but letting us know that we hurt people when we talked about them like that.

She was one that we decided had fleas. There was another girl who had also been elected by the time I started attending. By the time we reached high school the second girl had blossomed and grown out of the disdain with which she had been held in the fifth grade. In junior high she met a lot of new people and in high school she was a member of the drill team and fairly popular.

I don’t know what happened to the blonde girl who sat behind me in Mrs. Baldwin’s fifth grade class. I don’t remember her being in the school the next year. Perhaps she was in a different class in the sixth grade, or maybe her family moved during the summer.

It was over 45 years ago.

I don’t remember that I ever played the giving another guy her fleas game. I don’t think I did. I wouldn’t have wanted to chance my parents hearing about it.

I do remember joining in the laughter. And I remember not feeling right about it.

Like me, she would now be inching up on 60.

I remember her smile and what she looked like, but I don’t remember her name.

I wish I did.

I don’t remember ever talking with her beyond a couple of mumbled hellos.

I wish I could talk to her now. I would apologize for not being brave enough to tell the other boys to stop being mean to her.

She deserved better.

Copyright © John Arthur Horner, 2009

Be quick about it, and don’t dawdle!

The sun is near to setting, and dusk comes quickly on us! Pack the belongings quickly, and load them on the camels! We must be ready to chase the sun as soon as it hides behind the western mountains and the light begins to fade.

The leading star will lend its brightness to the darkening sky, beckoning us onward to the wonder that lies ahead! So make sure the camels are well watered and the packs are secure! The star will not wait for us—

[Short pause.]

Even though I have waited all this time, since even before I saw that it would emerge in all its newness in this year’s sky.

Something amazing! Something … something special.

I don’t … I don’t even—

I don’t even know what it is!

You must know what it is to wait for something special. A gift you were promised as a child if you behaved yourself. The gathering of family and friends for a special feast day. The return of a loved one who has been away for, oh— for far too long.

The smile on the face of the one you love that will tell you for the first time that you are loved in return.

[Pause.]

If you have— If you have, then you may begin to understand what my waiting has been.

[Deliberately, giving each word its own emphasized time.] I … don’t … even ,,, know … what … it … is!

I only know that it will be wondrous!

And I am sure that there must be others who have seen—who have seen what I have seen, and journey now to see what I must see.

[Turning.] Quickly! Make haste!

The star will not wait for us!

Copyright © John Arthur Horner, 2009