A Quiet Chamber: Part III

...It was tradition, upon returning home, that we change our church clothes into pajamas, and gather in the kitchen.

Across the hall the door was still closed—but its knob had been replaced. I saw that knob, and my heart kicked inside of me. So I chewed my bottom lip and frowned like thunder: No! It won’t be what it ought to be! It never is.

Adult.

And always, always the hoops of my father’s tradition: we lined up in the kitchen from the youngest to the oldest. I stood last in a line of seven. My littlest sister was clasping her hands and raising her shining, saintly face to my father, who stood before her facing us. Her hair hung down her back to the waist. Blithe child! Her blue eyes burst with trust. I pitied her.

My father prayed a prayer, tormenting me. For the prayer evoked the very images I was refusing: infant Jesus, gift of God, love come down from heaven—all of the things that conspired to make me glad at Christmas. My poor heart bucked and disputed that prayer. No! I would not hope. No! I would not permit excitement. No! No! I would not be set up for a second disappointment.

We were a single minute from entering the room.

And I might have succeeded at severity—

—except that then we sang a song, the same song we always sung, and the singing undid me altogether. Music destroys me. A hymn will reduce me to infancy.

Nine bare voices, unaccompanied in the kitchen, we sang: Ah, dearest Jesus, hold child—and I began to tremble.—Make thee a bed, soft, undefiled—The very sweetness of the melody caused my defenses to fall: I began to hope, and I began to fear, both at once. I began to wish, and wishing made me terrified. I began all over again to believe, but I had never ceased my unbelief. I began to panic.—Within my heart; that it may be—Dreadfully now, I yearned for some good thing to be found in that room, but “dreadfully,” I say, because I was an adult; I’d put away the childish things; I’d been disillusioned and knew no good to be in there. This was a pitiless sham!

—A quiet chamber kept for thee.

My father whispered, “Now.”

He turned to the door.

Little squeals escaped my sister.

He grasped the knob and opened the door upon a muted colored light; and one by one his children crept through the door and into that room.

All of his children save one. I lingered in the doorway, looking, not breathing.

-Walt Wangerin, The Manger is Empty, 63-64.