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Our donkeys had been invited to play themselves in three live nativity
scenes--all on the same weekend. I wasn't the least surprised and my
husband, Ken, was tickled to pieces. With our family raised, it was as
if he must hurry and live hard and fast before his oats and vinegar
burned out. We did much in those days, riding or carting in parades,
teaching kids to saddle and lope, or enlisting Smart Ass to carry
Jesus on his last ride every Palm Sunday at our church.
"Wonderful!," I eagerly agreed. "But have you given thought to the
logistics getting our crew to their appointed mangers on time? And
I'll bet you forgot we're hosting the annual neighborhood Christmas
party that same weekend." As usual, my darlin's mouth had overshot his
brain with his eternal, but lovable donkey passions. Why couldn't Mary
have ridden to Bethlehem on a horse, I irreverently mused?
And as my words flew over his head and my redheaded tempest rose an
octave, Ken yammered on. "Easy as pie. We'll load up Smart Ass, Sam,
Storm, and Sweet Pea as the understudy, and drop them off at the
churches each evening. Our two students are really excited to help and
will oversee children's rides at evening's end."
I felt like an old Scrooge. While Ken fervently pulled necessary
strings, I peered out the window, reminiscing Christmases
past. Sunlit frosty crystals glittering like diamonds fell over snowy
fields, and comical snowmen graced every gate along our road. One week
always left us in a minus zero freeze, but we took it in stride with
old sol rendering us sun worshippers through brief arctic blasts. As
28-year mountaineers yearly warming has blessed us, and lest a mother
nature fluke, the minus 50's will never benumb our ranch again.
There's a lot to be said for living on a tranquil 7,000 foot forested
mountain only 20 minutes from suburbia. We breathe in the scent of
pine, fir, and cedar breezes, and listen to the sweet sounds of Rocky
Mountain birds. Other than a pair of coyotes feigning their music
together as though they numbered a half dozen, deafening quiet usually
reigns. Now and then a moose or deer bring their young just yards from
our deck and stay through the balmy days of summer.
It has been an ideal place to raise this herd of carefully bred
mammoth donkeys. Not just any donkeys, for our mid-life lunacy has
spawned champion performers, four debuting into The National Hall of
Fame. With the crew semi-retired, friends and relatives hastily query,
"What are you guys going to do with them now?" "Why, eat them, of
course," Ken always retorts with a wink.
So, we loaded them up and dropped them off with their halters, treats,
and handlers. They were groomed nearly as meticulously as were the
parishioners who took great care with their own beards and makeup.
Staged on the busy corner over a great expanse of yard beneath soft
muted lights, youngsters took delight in welcoming me and my famed
donkey, Smart Ass.
Costuming was just a tad fancier than the usual array of colorful
scarves, men's bathrobes, and someone's old prom dress. Attire was
lovingly and authentically crafted upon sewing machines, to be
treasured and worn annually. A small light centered upon the boy Jesus
in his bed of straw, and Mary's face shown radiant as she and Joseph
received gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Traditional Christmas
carols played softly and every half-hour the actors traded costumes
and places while I plied my content donkey with treats.
While warming myself with the actors in the church vestibule, I noted
the entire ensemble was braving freezing temperatures in bare feet and
sandals. Giving their all seemed more important than ruining the scene
in awkward and tacky snow boots. Suddenly, a young man hurried in,
laughing so hard he could barely speak. "Come quick, Mrs. C., ya gotta
get a load of what that Smart Ass of yours is up to."
Oh Lordy, I grimly speculated, I hope he hasn't upended that lovely
cr?che and everyone in it. My boy was hustling again, wagging his
tongue up and down, shaking hooves with the wise men, begging for
seconds, keeping the crowds in stitches. I opened the back of the big
square tent, pulled on his tail and barked, "Knock it off, Donk, for a
change you're not the star of this show!" Not long after, the sheep
barreled over a bale of hay into the crowded sidewalk, while the
shepherds tended their flock around the perimeter.
And so it was, year after year, a major part of our city's Christmas
celebrations with cameras snapping and the TV stations and newspapers
doing interviews. The other two churches fared well with only minor
calamities and equally large crowds clamoring for photo ops. After the
audiences returned home, our donkey crew was happy to stretch their
legs. I couldn't help but think the Christ child was happy to know
that a donkey that carried his mother, was carrying joyful children in
honor of his birth.
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God walked down the stairs of heaven with a baby in His arms. |
