Lisa

Readers, this post is a bit longer than most. Apologies. I wrote this to be read at an evening of Christmas songs and stories. Enjoy.

Most of the time, it is quite advantageous to be enrolled in an all-girls’ school when you’re 7-years-old. There was, however, one time during the second grade at St. Mildred’s Lightborne School for Girls when boys were sorely missed: the Christmas Pageant. The second graders were always cast in the leading roles. And, since there were no boys to play the boy roles, girls had to do it. We second graders didn’t get to audition– everything was just decided for us and then announced by the homeroom teacher, Mrs. McBurney. She must have known that had she held proper auditions, she would have had 22 girls auditioning for Mary.

In truth, most of the other roles weren’t dreaded so much. The angel Gabriel was a pretty enviable part because it came with a very attractive costume. This was also true of the wise men. Being a shepherd was less desirable but if you had a good props mistress, you’d be flanked with stuffed sheep that would detract from your costume, which, let’s face it, was pretty much guaranteed to be a ratty bathrobe.

In fact, the only role that was truly dreaded was the role of Joseph. The girl who played Joseph had to wear a fake beard and hold a cane. Nothing was less feminine than Joseph.

Mrs. McBurney stood at the front of the classroom. “All right girls,” she said, “Today I am going to announce the casting for the Christmas Pageant.”

She started with smaller roles—the shepherds, the inn keeper, the heavenly host. When Mrs. McBurney announced that Angela Chang would be Mary, we all cooed and clapped. Mrs. McBurney shushed the cooing, “Now for the role of Joseph,” she said. “Joseph will be played by… Lisa Piorczynski.”

My heart dropped. No one clapped or cooed. The nice girls just looked at me sympathetically while the mean ones snickered gleefully. Why me? I wondered. What did I do to deserve THIS?

That night at home I thought of ways I could escape my fate: breaking an arm, catching a contagious disease, moving to Guatemala. But, knowing that none of these escape routes were very practical, I came to the conclusion that the only way I could get out of the situation was the same way Mary and Joseph got into it: a miracle.

So I started praying for one. We had two weeks until the pageant. And I was confident that 2 weeks was plenty of time for God to give me a miracle.

But the first week of rehearsals passed slowly and was painfully lacking in miracles. Over the weekend, I doubled my efforts. I prayed harder, with my eyes closed more tightly and my hands clasped more devotedly. But Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday passed with no miracle.

Then on Thursday—the day of our dress rehearsal—Mrs. McBurney stood up to make an announcement. “Girls, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” she said. “Mrs. Chang called to inform me that Angela broke her leg last night at her gymnastics meet.”

Everyone gasped. Except for me. My praying had paid off and my miracle had come just in time. Surely this meant that the pageant would be cancelled and that I would be saved. No Christmas pageant could go on without Mary.

“This means,” Mrs. McBurney continued, “that Mary is going to be on crutches. Lisa, you’ll have to carry a chair on stage for her, and you’ll have to hold her crutches for her when she’s sitting down.”

God had given me a perfectly good miracle and just like that Mrs. McBurney took it away.

After our dress rehearsal was over, my dad came with our station wagon to pick me up. He said that I was sitting like a little lump of coal and wanted to know what my problem was.

“My problem is that I’ve spent the past 2 weeks praying for a miracle but my stupid homeroom teacher took it away,” I said, arms crossed in the back seat. I explained about Angela Chang’s broken leg, about having to carry the chair and about my hideous costume.

“Lisa,” my father said, “Did you know that your grandmother hated peaches?”

“What?”

“Your Polish grandmother she hated peaches. But peaches saved our family.”

“Dad,” I said, “What are you talking about?”

My dad smiled, “When your grandparents came here from Poland to farm they had no money, Lisa. They didn’t even have a stove in their house. But they worked hard, and they prayed for a miracle just like you. In the spring a frost came that killed most of the peach crop in the area. There were just two little pockets of land that were spared. And your grandparents’ farm was in one of those little pockets. Peach prices went through the roof; they got enough money from those peaches to buy a stove and a tractor. Your grandmother always called it ‘the miracle of the peaches.’ She hated peaches, but peaches saved them.”

I stared at my dad, unimpressed. “So what? I don’t see how peaches are going to save me.”

My dad smiled, “My point is that maybe you’ve misread the miracle. Maybe the miracle isn’t Angela Chang breaking her leg. Maybe the miracle is you being there to help her with the chair and with her crutches. Maybe you are the peach. Your grandmother didn’t like peaches and you don’t like being Joseph. Lisa, maybe you’re the miracle.”

I was quiet for a minute as I thought about what my father had said. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I was the miracle. Maybe I was the peach. Being a peach was definitely better than being Joseph.

The next night—the night of the pageant—I felt better. As Mary hobbled out on stage and I straggled behind her, orange plastic chair in hand, some parents snickered under their breath. Those same parents snickered again at the sight of me standing, resolutely behind Mary, staff in one hand, crutches in the other. But, since I knew that I was really a peach and not just Joseph, it didn’t matter so much.

And after it was finished and people came up to me and asked me how I liked playing Joseph, I corrected them. “Oh, I wasn’t just Joseph,” I explained. “I was the peach. I was the miracle. And I really enjoyed being the miracle, thanks for asking.”