Joseph and His Technicolor Nightmare

(London, England)

This Christmas felt lame. I was fifteen years old, and I was playing Joseph in the Primary Nativity. I mean—at my age—parading with little kids in front of the whole Branch, dressed in an ancient dressing gown?

It was last Sunday when Sister Bailey, the Primary President, pulled me to one side before Priesthood. She looked so pleased to find me that her smile nearly reached her ears.

“Ah! Gabe,” she began.

I recognized that tone. I knew what would follow. You’re precisely the—

“You’re precisely the person I’ve been looking for.” She beamed. “We do miss you in Primary.”

Her sparkling eyes gazed into mine. I felt her kindness getting to me the way it always did. I kept on walking as I spoke. “Hello, Sister Bailey. Thanks. I’m late for Priesthood.”

She held my arm. “I won’t keep you a minute, dear. I need your help. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Um . . . no,” I said, half nodding, half shaking my head.

She spoke faster. “You remember the old woolen dressing gown you wore as a shepherd in the Nativity one year? Would you mind wearing it again next week as Joseph? We don’t have enough boys.”

Her wide-eyed hope was too much. Besides, I was still catching my breath with relief that she didn’t want me for an angel. So I agreed.

I must have been out of my mind. How was I going to live this one down? And that dressing gown itched something awful. Maybe if I pulled the headdress over my face, no one would know it was me.

I tried to forget the Nativity. It was the last week of school. For once, I was glad I was the only Church member there. As for my seminary teacher’s suggestion that we share the Gospel as a Christmas gift, that’s a no-brainer—not me, not at my school.

We finished school mid-week. Sunday came too fast. Our family planned to open gifts after church this year, as Christmas fell on Sunday. Strange how Mom and Dad never noticed I was the only one of their five children not groaning when that decision was made. My mind was on other things—other disastrous things.

My dad, who was the Branch President, and I arrived at church early. Straight into dress rehearsal. I was reaching for a major itch at the top of my back when I first noticed someone crying. The sound came from behind a screen at the far end of the room. There was such a ruckus going on that no one else heard, and all I saw was a pair of small black feet in the gap at the bottom.

I inched the screen forward a bit. There she was. I guessed about four years old, with chubby, coffee colored cheeks, and two huge brown eyes dripping tears. I never saw her before, but then the Elders were always bringing investigators. New people were here all the time.

I whispered, holding out my hand, “Are you lost?”

She hiccuped. The tears slowed, but she didn’t reply.

I tried a smile. “Look, I’m the one who should be crying, dressed in this woolly thing. Is your mum here?”

She nodded slowly, sticking her thumb in her mouth. I knelt on the floor, hunching my back. “Climb on, and we’ll find her.”

Her smile was shaky. “The mishries brought me,” she whispered. “They took Mam and Michael somewhere. I want to be an angel. I took off my shoes, but no one sees me.” More tears welled.

I grinned, trying to sound cheerful, wishing I was the one hiding. “I expect that’s because this big old screen’s in the way.” I beckoned, flattening my back so she could reach. “What’s your name?”

She giggled, small hands tugging at my costume, legs kicking and scrambling. Then she sniffed. “Leah.”

She blew her nose on my head-cloth, and I shut my eyes, groaning inside. That was all I needed. I hoped the Young Women’s choir didn’t look too close when we walked in front of them.

I stood and tiptoed out of the Primary room, and was heading down the corridor when she gave a piercing yell, right in my ear. I nearly tripped. Another screech. “My Mam!” Leah jiggled up and down, tugging at the towel draped around my head.

I tried squinting past the cloth that now dangled over my eyes, and saw the group coming toward us. Leah slithered to the ground, dragging on my clothes to slow her progress. I pulled at my lopsided costume and looked again. A sick feeling surged in my throat.

I dropped the headpiece back over my face, but it was too late. He recognized me. Standing next to his mother, who scooped Leah into her arms, was Michael Mbuli—one of the lads from school.

My breath expelled on a long, silent, “Oh noooo!” If feelings made a person melt, I’d be a blob on the floor in seconds.

“Gabe?” Mike sounded incredulous. “Is that you, Gabe?” The grin that oozed across his face said everything.

Should I shrug it off with a laugh, pretending I often trailed through church looking like some ancient drifter? Or should I jabber in a foreign tongue and run off so he’d think he was mistaken?

I did neither because an odd thing happened. One thought made its way to the front of my mind—be honest.

I sighed, attempting a smile, and held out my hand. “Mike! I didn’t realize you knew the Elders. I was bringing Leah to find her mum.” My smile slipped. I turned to Mrs. Mbuli while pulling bits of clothing into shape, and mumbled. “I’m . . . uh . . . part of something we’re putting on in the next meeting.”

Clearing my throat, I pointed toward Leah. “If you’d like to bring your daughter this way, I’m sure she can join the . . . um . . . show.”

I didn’t dare meet Mike’s eyes. Imagination was bad enough. But on feeling his hand on my arm, I looked around—then stared in open-mouthed astonishment. How weird. He looked kind of interested.

“Don’t suppose they’d have me too, would they, Gabe?” He sounded eager. “All this stuff the elders have been teaching us about Jesus Christ. It’s cool, man. And I thought you Mormons weren’t Christian. Why have you never told me about your church?”

Before I could think of an excuse, he punched me on the shoulder, and taking Leah from his mother, marched off down the corridor.

With a half wave at Mrs. Mbuli and the grinning Elders, I walked to the Primary Room.
This couldn’t be happening. Mike, of all people. He was the class clown, famous for saying what he thought. Mike? In the Nativity?

And he was. Sister Bailey jumped at the chance of an extra Wise Man—especially a tall, dark, handsome one. And no one in the congregation minded when one small, bare-footed angel crept up to hold his hand.

But the bit that got to me was when we sang Picture a Stable. It was new to Mike, so he stood there silent and dignified. I watched, and chills ran down my back as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Something was happening between him and the Lord. I felt it.