A Silent Joseph

It's the case at Christmas every year that I'm reminded of an event from my youth that is one of the few Christmas memories I would like to forget. It's emblazoned in my mind like a branding iron is impressed on a cow, though, and I need to share this as an act of humility for all posterity.

I was in Seventh Grade and living in Onawa, Iowa, and our Sunday School class was in charge of the Christmas Eve program that year. I was selected to be Joseph. I had never been Joseph, and I saw this as my big opportunity on stage.

I wish I could attribute my selection for this honorable role to being the most eloquent or perhaps most expressive actor in our class, but I think it had more to do with the fact that none of the other boys wanted to do it. My hand shot up before I realized no one else's did, and ding ding ding I was chosen.

I took it very seriously. Because Joseph had been a carpenter, I practiced my wood-working skills (and hoped that the black and blue swollen fingers of my left hand could recover from the repeated hammer mashing); I found the perfect costume and I made my siblings practice the play with me; I developed a Nazarethean accent, probably sounding more Parisian than Palestinian; but most of all, I practiced my solo.

Yes, I had a solo! I had never sung a solo before ... well, not since third grade when Mom and Dad taped me singing the National Anthem in the shower and I swore that I would never sing again. But I had grown out of that, and I was ready to tackle the job of providing some celestial Christmas crooning at our pageant.

I realized even then that I don't have a natural gift for singing. I knew, as I still know, that I needed to work at it if I was going to do a halfway decent job. I wanted to be more than just halfway decent, so I hit it hard.

Oh my, did I practice! I worked day and night, night and day, forwards and backwards, singing this song. It wasn't a traditional song; instead, it was a song that some clever person, thinking he could out-compose Franz Gruber or Felix Mendelssohn or Charles Wesley, put together in the booklet that we were using for the pageant.

There were a couple of notes I was having trouble with, trying to pick them out of thin air. The intervals were hard for me. If I remember correctly, I had to go from an F to a B, which wasn't an interval that I was used to. So I practiced and practiced and practiced and ... well, you get the idea.

And then I practiced some more.

So it came to pass that the grand night arrived. I felt prepared in every way, shape, and form. I even had my Nazarethean accent down pat. As we were getting ready to leave the house to walk over to the church for the performance, I went to the piano one more time. I sang F, then B, then F, then B, then F F F, B B B. F B F B F B. It felt good. I was ready for that interval.

My solo would be fairly early on in the pageant. In fact, after the first few lines, it would be time for the solo. And my part pretty much would end after the solo -- it's all about Mary and Baby Jesus from that point on.

Anyway, it was time for the solo. I stood up front, next to the piano. I cleared my throat. And with the clarity and beauty of a morning dove (is that a pretty sound? If not, insert your favorite bird) I sang the first verse.

"No room, no room in the inn tonight. No room, no room in the inn tonight."

And then ... the moment of truth ... I hit the F to B interval superbly. Oh I was proud. I smiled. I think I even winked at Mom, sitting in the audience. I finished the first verse, and the piano played a little interlude. Visions of fame and fortune entered my mind. I could see the headlines in the town papers now. "New Talent Discovered! Moving to Hollywood Next Week!"

Then the second verse began. The piano played the little introduction after the interlude, and then ...

"......"

My mind went blank. How did the second verse begin? I glanced over at the pianist. She took it in stride, and circled back through the interlude again. No one would notice.

The second verse began again.

"......"

My mouth opened. No sound came out. I ... had forgotten the words to the second verse.

The pianist circled back through the interlude one more time. And again, the second verse started.

"......"

I'm not sure what expression was on my face, but the audience must have thought it comical because I heard a burst of muffled laughter; then more laughter; and then finally all politeness was abandoned and the whole sanctuary erupted in a roar. Or at least it seemed that way to me.

I stood there shaking. I wanted to become invisible. I wanted to melt away through the wood floor. I wanted to undo my very existence, to become an ex-me.

But I couldn't. I just stood there, shaking, wishing the song would end; but instead, it seemed to go on forever. Oh I wanted the pianist to stop!

My life passed before my eyes. After this night, I would have no friends. My family would change the locks on the door and leave me out in the snow. They might even move without leaving a forwarding address. Even a pork chop tied around my neck probably wouldn't entice my dog to play with me any more.

The song ended with the final chord. The audience did clap, probably because they were thankful to no longer be enduring the traumatic experience.

I disappeared off stage and ran out the back door. It was snowing outside and I had no jacket. In fact, I was only wearing Joseph's robe, some tennis shoes, and a scarf thing around my head.

I stood out there in the cold, thinking that maybe I should just stand there and freeze to death and then I wouldn't have to face anybody. I didn't want to talk about this, I didn't want to see anybody who had been there.

After a few minutes, I heard voices around the corner of the church. Some people were coming out the front door. The pageant was over! I could go back inside, and I was somewhat relieved because my fingers and toes were cold out in the Iowa December night.

I walked back to the door. Reaching for the handle, I tugged, but the door didn't budge. Maybe it was frozen. I pulled hard. Nothing. The door was locked. The back door was locked!

That meant ... that ... I had to go in through the front door, the very same door that people would be passing as they walked down the stairs to the basement for Christmas cookies and hot cocoa.

I thought about not going in, but I was getting colder. Taking a deep breath, I walked to the front door, pulled the handle, and walked in. People were surprised to see me ... my hair had snow on it -- in fact, all of me was covered with snow -- and I briskly walked downstairs to the basement.

I couldn't look anybody in the eye. I went directly to the refreshment table and loaded one of those small paper dessert plates with a mountain of cookies and bars -- comfort food -- and I walked to a far corner of the room so that I could be alone and feel sorry for myself.

And then -- I'll never forget this -- my dad walked up to me. He patted me on the back and said, "Nice job, Leoj." Leoj was sort of his affectionate name for me. In fact it still is.

He didn't say anything about my huge blunder. He didn't ask what happened. And he didn't go on and on saying, "Oh it's okay, everybody does that," or some such garbage. He just said, "Nice job ... Leoj."

And that's all I needed to hear. I somehow knew that I was still part of the family. I somehow knew that I was still part of the church. I somehow knew that my friends would still call me their friend.

And all that was true, and I went on to live a happy life.

One thing though ... I never did get asked to sing a solo again!