Lions and monkeys aren't part of the manger scene from the traditional Christmas story, you say?
Technically, you're correct. But, for the children's Christmas play we put on at our church several years ago, they were a necessity.
Thanks to a combination of overactive, "busy" children and creative adults directing the play, the Christmas production got a little non-traditional that year as we acquiesced to the kids' requests when it came time to dole out parts for the nativity scene.
When we asked the kids if they wanted to be sheeps or cows while the older children playing Mary and Joseph walked to the center of the spotlighted stage as "Away in a Manger" played, the answer we got was a loud, resounding "No!"
Sheeps and cows were out...lions, monkeys, and unicorns were in.
After a few explanations that they couldn't dress up in that manner (and the accompanying whines and sobs), a few of us looked at each other with raised eyebrows and shrugged.
"Well...?"
"Why not?"
We agreed pretty quickly that a little creativity might go a long way with an event that often devolved into frustration and frayed tempers. The nativity scene might look untraditional (and there's a good chance we'd meet the disapproving glances from those complaining that we'd let the kids "get their way"), but we reasoned that all animals celebrate the birth of the baby Jesus...even if they weren't actually there to witness it.
The kids rallied around the idea, and costume fittings became exciting instead of tiresome. A parrot and dragon were added to the mix, as we bucked the idea of factualness altogether. Our resident costume designers jumped on the bandwagon and before we knew it there were feathers and fur and horns and scales and glitter being sewn onto sweat suits and robes.
My own daughters had aged out of the Christmas play experience, so my strongest affection went to the precocious three-year-old son of dear friends. (And, sure, I loved all those kids dearly from that year. But while God doesn't show favoritism, I most certainly did.)
Killian quickly claimed the lion costume and I informed him that he could certainly "Roooarrr!!" his approval at the arrival of the Christ child. His eyes glistened with the possibility.
On the night of the play, everything went fairly well, except for the as-to-be-expected challenges; there were a few forgotten lines from the older children, a couple of microphone glitches, and some scene-stealing from kindergartners who refused to stand during songs.
When the little ones began walking down the aisle toward the manger in the middle of the sanctuary, the "oohs" and "aahs" broke out all over the room. Twitterings of "how precious!" and "they're adorable" rose to a crescendo.
And then a couple of giggles and laughs emerged, as the crowd realized in unison that there wasn't a cow or sheep--or any type of farm animal--in the bunch.
Joseph and Mary, holding a baby doll, walked toward the manger; the exotic menagerie of animals (and imaginary creatures) followed.
As is usually the case when children illuminate the holy, we realized that an important message was coming our way.
And a hush fell.
Killian, costumed in full lion regalia, walked to the side of the manger and caught my eye where I sat hidden on the stage (where I could cue children with forgotten lines). He looked a little shell-shocked, the reality of a packed church dawning on him.
He crawled toward me as "Away in a Manger" played and pushed himself into my lap. I looked toward his parents, but couldn't catch their attention in the dark. I didn't want Killian to miss being in the center of the action, but there was no goading him back to where he was supposed to be.
The rest of the children gathered around the manger, singing loudly and mostly off-key. After the song, an older girl read the story from Luke of the baby's shepherd, angelic, and livestock visitors.
Killian leaned his head into my shoulder and quietly "Roarr!"ed into my ear.
He sat in my lap for the last song of the night and then jumped up when the overhead lights came on and the kids were encouraged to bow to the audience.
His lion--and the rest of the animal parade--got the loudest cheer of the evening.
Once all the children had marched out and then the parents and other audience members exited, I sat still on a front pew and took a deep breath. I followed Mary's example from that first Christmas night so many years ago and and pondered things a bit.
There was still so much ahead on my Christmas calendar (gifts to buy and wrap, gatherings to attend, cleaning to do), but in that moment I realized I had experienced everything I needed that season.
The Christ of Christmas had reached down to remind me that all worship is holy; that all are welcome at his feet; that children still lead us; that pondering is often more important than ritual; that time is fleeting.
Just a short time after that Christmas we lost Killian's mom, and the grief from losing a friend consumed me. I prayed for Killian's tender heart to survive such a tragedy.
Time, along with love and grace and a lot of support, did indeed provide healing. Killian grew, and he was told stories of a mother who loved him so.
My way of dealing with loss is also to tell stories.
And so each holiday season I remember the little lion; I tell the story of the Christmas play with the crazy animals; I tell stories of my own children and grandchildren; I tell the stories of Jesus.
And I look to the children.
Their excitement and exuberance fill me with fresh wonder.
Their wisdom belies their youthfulness.
Their small, quiet roars remind me of the moments that are sometimes too difficult to handle, but are holy nonetheless.
~~~~
Cheryl Wray is the coordinator of the Southern Christian Writers Conference. Her three daughters--McKenna, Delaney, and Scout--are now grown ,but still have wonderful memories of participating in numerous church Christmas plays over the years.