My thirteen-year old and I landed small roles in our local community theater’s production of “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.” It’s been years since I acted, and even then, those were church plays. This is my first acting opportunity in a “real” theater in a “real” play. In a story about how unruly children star in a church Christmas pageant and discover the meaning of Christmas, I am one of the gossiping church ladies. The irony of it all hasn’t escaped me.
I’ve heard the familiar story of Jesus’ birth dozens and dozens of times over the past few weeks. I’ve acted out the transformation my character experiences — from being critical of the children to praising them. When referencing the baby doll in the manger, I’ve spoken the words “Well, it did seem real” over and over. It’s my last line in the show.
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I’ve been listening to sacred Christmas songs over the past week. They’ve cracked open the heart I’d sealed. After a year of sporadic prayers that went unanswered, today presented me with hope. I randomly selected an episode from a Christian podcast I’ve ignored for at least six months. The topic couldn’t have been more perfect for my seeking heart.
A few hours later, while waiting on a friend for lunch, I remembered an article someone had messaged me a little over a week ago. When I received it, I promised to read it when I had time, and promptly forgot about it. So while I waited on my lunch date to arrive, I pulled up the article and began reading. The first paragraph made my jaw drop. Not only was the topic the same as the podcast, even the illustrations were the same. I quickly clicked over to the website’s home page to discover that the author was the same person who’d hosted the podcast. The article I received a week ago was the written piece that accompanied the podcast episode I’d randomly selected a few hours earlier.
Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe it was finally an answer to my prayers. It did seem real.
Perhaps it’s enough to wish and to want to believe. Call it hope in a foolish fairytale or a mustard seed of faith or whatever. I’m calling it the faintest glimmer of grace.
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When the rules become suffocating and all-in makes you want to get out, grace. When you throw out the religious baby and the holy bathwater, grace. When goodness and mercy feel like a joke and reason and logic seem too cruel, grace. When prayers remain unanswered and agnostic is the only label you can find that fits, grace. When faith feels as foolish as a fairytale, grace. When black and white turns to a mucked-up shade of gray, grace. When the songs have been silenced, grace.
Grace is all I know. It’s what I keep coming back to when nothing else makes sense. I don’t know where to go from here or what faith looks like for me now, but that’s okay. There’s grace for the not-knowing.
