Ghosts of Christmas Past

When I was a girl, church Christmas parties were carefully choreographed events. Leaders of the Primary (our church's organization for children) spent weeks helping active youngsters rehearse the Nativity story. The chorister coached us until we sang "sleep in heavenly pe-eace" without sliding into the high note. One year I was thrilled when the Primary president asked me to be Mary, until the honor caused a rift with my best friend who coveted the role. My co-star proved to be a very reluctant Joseph.

The night of our performance was the highlight of December. I loved dressing up in a red velvet dress, brushing my waist-length curls, then squeezing into our old Pontiac with my parents and seven siblings. People in our small town did not bother with elaborate yard displays, but strings of old-fashioned colored lights along a few porches created a magic glow on snow drifts as we drove to the church.

Upon arrival, we weren't served sliced ham with the proverbial Mormon "funeral potatoes". The children's re-enactment of Luke II was the reason that our local congregation gathered and watched patiently from rows of cold metal chairs. Behind the heavy brown curtains, I waited with a coil of nervous anticipation in my stomach until it was my turn to emerge onto the old wooden stage that smelled faintly of lemon oil.

This year, my husband and I took turns driving twenty miles twice a week so that our youngest son could experience the same thrill in a Dickens Festival theater production. There were plenty of ups and downs during three months of rehearsals for "A Christmas Carol" and "Oliver". At first he was a little disappointed about being given the lead role of the innocent-yet-spunky orphan boy. But as the show progressed he admitted that it was fun. When the cast did the final dress rehearsals in a convention center that had been transformed into Victorian London, our son was hooked.

He's come so far from the shy boy who sang an inhibited rendition of "Consider Yourself" at a vocal recital less than three years ago. Last week his confidence and enthusiasm as an actor were a delight to see.

I love having kids involved in theater and witnessing what the experience can do for everyone involved in a show. But on a ward level I wonder if it's becoming a lost art.

Don't get me wrong. After trying to pull off a party for the Relief Society (my church's women's organization), I'm the first to express appreciation for those who accomplish such a feat year after year. Even a short play is labor-intensive while a white-elephant gift exchange is simple and fun. But if the reason for ward activities is to build friendships, why not put a little extra effort into an occasional production? If all goes well (even with imperfections), some hidden talents might come to light and the rapport between cast members makes it all worthwhile.

I'll never forget the fall of 2003 when I was struggling with a sense of isolation. My prayers were answered when the woman in charge of the Relief Society Christmas program asked me to write a readers' theater about Mary the mother of Jesus.

The project was hard; I hadn't written a play since fifth or sixth grade when I naively assumed the entire school would be entertained by my short holiday dramas. But in a few weeks, I churned out a thirty-page script while immersing myself in the minds of those who lived the real Christmas story. It was an intense process.

Sharing my work with the cast and then the women of the ward was even harder. It's one thing to send manuscripts to editors in distant cities and quite another to expose some of your deepest thoughts to people you see every Sunday at church.

The performance wasn't Broadway-brilliant; since then I've improved the script. But the response from ordinary women like me was overwhelming. I'll never forget when the woman who played Elisabeth confided that she too had been struggling, but was uplifted by her participation in the program.

I felt honored by her trust and willingness to step out of her comfort zone and into the character of a woman who also faced great challenges. Our friendship would have never deepened if we had merely exchanged smiles in the foyer of our chapel.

I remembered this while writing the script for this year's program which centered on Christmas in 19th-century Nauvoo, Illinois--a place and time significant to our church's history. After a non-productive summer, I struggled to create a script will all the elements that first gave me a spark of inspiration. I know it still needs improvement and a better presentation. But there were moments when words and ideas flowed, which hasn't happened for a long time. My research on the lives of women who lived in Nauvoo nourished my soul and helped to dispel doubts that I could make time to write historical fiction. I really need to work on that lifelong dream. Just not 24/7!

Was the extra effort worth it? Even though there were last-minute changes in the program that left me paranoid about answering another phone call, I have to say yes. In spite of busy schedules, so many women graciously donated time and various talents to make Christmas in Nauvoo come to life for a couple of hours. The entire process of everyone working together and becoming better friends still leaves me feeling humbled and awed.

Given a little time to recuperate and regroup, I could do this again.