A Donkey's Tale by Sue Wright
After learning she was chosen to be the Donkey in her church’s Christmas Eve pageant, Misty beamed with joy. And why not? The donkey was her favorite in the Christmas story, except for Baby Jesus. She couldn’t play The Baby, of course, even if she wanted! Misty was seven years old!
The girl was mature for her age but still too young to understand how people frequently identify with particular figures in history, and that for her, and whatever reasons, that figure was the donkey. She didn’t know she felt most akin to the donkey because, like her, he was willing to do whatever was asked to get the job done. In the donkey’s case, the work was carrying Mary to Bethlehem. Legend represented the donkey as faithful, tireless, surefooted, and long-suffering. Words a seven-year-old wasn’t expected to understand, but words Misty would have no doubt ascribed to the Donkey if she could. They were how he was depicted in every Christmas book she read and every Christmas re-enactment she watched on TV.
Misty wasn’t a lot of things, but she WAS strong for seven, and even more than that, she was by nature, more than willing to carry the load when someone required her help. For example, her mother, who had been sick for over a year now and needed Misty to bring her things when she didn’t have the energy to get out of bed. Misty was as comfortable taking care of her mother, as a donkey is at home being a donkey. She and her mother and her younger brother traveled a hard road these days. Someone had to be the donkey of the family, or the three of them wouldn’t get where they needed to go.
They were at risk as the weary couple walking from Nazareth to Bethlehem. Without a donkey, imagine where Mary and Joseph might have ended up? In a field? Short of Bethlehem? Short of the stable and the hay where they would lay their newborn son? No wonder Misty loved the donkey most. For her, he was the hero of the story. Just like for Misty’s mother, Misty was a hero.
Christmas Eve, Misty and her mother and her little brother hurried into the Welcome Center of the church, among the first to arrive. Misty couldn’t wait to put on her costume, which would cover her from head to toe. Who cared nobody would know who was playing the donkey? Not Misty.
As soon as all of the pageant participants were assembled, the costumes were passed out to the children. Misty’s two-piece donkey outfit was just as she remembered from seeing it the year before. The body section was a furry brown fabric except for the four hooves which were patched in black velvet. The headpiece was the same color as the body but sported floppy ears and a long, horsey nose. Misty couldn’t help it — she clutched the costume close to her heart before putting it on, she felt so honored to be playing the donkey.
And then it happened. The pageant director, who was also Misty’s Sunday school teacher, clapped her hands for attention and said she had an announcement before everyone got dressed in their variety of pageant attire. “Sad news,” she said, “Jane Marie, who was supposed to be Mary tonight, has come down with the flu and can’t be here. If you don’t mind, Misty, we’d like you to play the part of Mary instead of being the donkey.”
It was no surprise that the director expected Misty to be happy assuming the heralded role of Mary. What girl wouldn’t want to be the star of this play? Instead, what she saw were tears rolling down Misty’s face. Not ungrateful tears — that wasn’t Misty — but definitely disappointed ones.
“But who will play the Donkey?” asked Misty.
“We thought perhaps your little brother.”
And so, for the first time, anyone could recall, it wasn’t the donkey who moved Mary down the aisle of the sanctuary to the stable but the other way around. It was Mary tugging her conscripted donkey — dragging him, pushing him, shoving him, cajoling and corralling him any way she could — getting herself, Joseph, and the donkey where they were supposed to be in something close to a timely fashion. What complicated the trip even further, the ornery beast of burden thought he was a rooster, and instead of braying “Hee-haw,” kept on crying “Cock-a-doodle-doo.”
No one seemed to mind the equine-creature-gone-fowl except Mary, who was trying her best to wrangle the reluctant donkey and still stay in character as the Mother of God. THANK God, Misty’s pastor, well-known for his sense of humor — and about the time the donkey was to be delivered — flew like an angel to the podium from where he sat midst the rest of the congregation, and with a mini-sermon fit for the ages and the highest of preacher-aplomb, deftly saved the Holy Night so innocently lost from its literal translation.
“Folks,” the pastor shouted in his loudest, most booming voice, “You heard the donkey crow “cock-a-doodle-do! Well, he’s right! It IS time — in fact — it’s PAST time all of us awoke to the birth of our Everlasting Lord and King!”
Unscripted, but on cue, the choir broke into a resounding first verse of “Joy to the World,” joined immediately by the organ and several brass members of the orchestra. Startled by the noise, sleeping
two-month-old Willie Jones, who waited in the wings to play the Infant Jesus, began screaming his
teensy-weensy head off. Hearing the child, Mary ran to grab him up and lay him in the manger, all the
while giving Willie her most enduring Misty smile and cooing like a dove until once more, love reigned, and peace prevailed.
A Silent Night, that cold December evening? Maybe not. But for certain, a “wholly” working one!