An Apprehensive Angel Brings a Christmas Blessing

By Jackie Clements-Marenda, Staten Island, New York

As appeared in

Computers aren’t my thing, but my children insisted I get on Facebook. I was grateful for it when Mrs. Moran tracked me down and “friended” me.

Back in Brooklyn, when I was a child, Mrs. Moran, a former showgirl, made every holiday in our building an extravaganza—especially Christmas. She cast all the kids in the building in her very own Christmas pageant.

As I confirmed her friend request, my mind drifted back to the year I turned seven. My brother, Thomas, and I were making our way up to Mrs. Moran’s apartment for our first rehearsal.

“Oh, please, let me be an elf!” I said.

Elves got to wear striped pants and pointy shoes and be as silly as they wanted. Whoever played Mary had to be serious and sad about not finding any room at the inn. Mrs. Moran insisted we had to become the part we played, so I wanted to play something fun.

“Well, you might get to be the donkey,” Thomas said.

I hoped not. Last year’s donkey had tried to carry a rather hefty Mary on his back and collapsed.

“Too bad we can’t have real animals anymore,” I sighed as we reached the second floor. “Just because that dog from 3B made a mess on the carpet.”

“Maybe the Beast will be in the show,” Thomas said. He glanced down the hall that led to the man’s lair, otherwise known as apt. 2-E.

The Beast, as we kids called him, had only lived in our building for a few months, but he’d captured all our imaginations. Nobody ever saw him come in or go out. There was no name on his mailbox. He had no visitors. His blinds were always shut.

The only sign of life was the grocery bags that appeared in front of his door. And the scary noises we heard above our heads at night, like something being dragged across the floor. Thomas said it was the Beast making a meal of his latest victim.

Just thinking about him gave me goose bumps. Thomas and I ran the last few steps to rehearsal.

The Santos boys got to be the elves. Thomas was the donkey. I got the worst part of all: the angel. The angel had to appear heavenly and make a speech about Jesus.

No somersaults, like the elves. Instead of a hat with bells, I had to wear a wire hanger halo covered with tinsel.

“Remember, you must become an angel,” Mrs. Moran told me a few weeks into rehearsal. “It’s your job to tell people that God loves them. Just think of all the people in the world who are lonely or hopeless.”

I recited my lines again, but my eye drifted to the Santos boys. One of them was doing a handstand.

On the night of the pageant I stood stiffly in our living room as Grandma Josie adjusted my halo. Thomas galloped around braying, donkey ears flopping. He’d become a donkey. I still didn’t feel like an angel.

“The Santos boys get to give out presents for Santa,” I said wistfully.

“You think too much about Santa and not enough about God,” Grandma Josie said around the pins in her mouth. “Santa rewards the good. God loves us all. He never turns his back on anyone. If he sees someone in trouble, he sends an angel to help. Santa’s elves don’t do that.”

I squirmed under her gaze. “Santa gives presents,” I said.

“God’s gifts are greater than Santa’s. They never get old or break. Some of his gifts you don’t even see.”

We were interrupted by a horrible scraping overhead. I jerked my head up so fast my halo fell off.

“Another victim,” Thomas said solemnly. “Perhaps the Beast is really an alien!”