The Lutheran Ladies' Circle: Plucking One String by Kris Knorr, Barb Froman

Windgett had a few drinks before doing the dramatic reading of “Journey of an Apostle.” The tankard of Rum Scorpions had calmed Bob’s performance anxiety so well, he went off script, interacting with the audience and accusing several people of being “too Roman to be Lutheran.” Nan pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to ease the throbbing in her head. Vera could at least tell her this was a debacle in the bathroom, where plenty of tissues would be available for the subsequent sobbing.
    A burst of laughter shot from the chancel area. The teenagers were rehearsing Mary and Joseph having a tug-of-war over baby Jesus. Kevin, Kay’s son who played Joseph, looked up, whipped the doll behind his back, stood up straight, and smiled. The other youth gravitated to a corner.
    “I haven’t been to any of your practices.” Vera watched the teens clump together and whisper, and then she scrutinized Micki. “Micki’s been taking up a great deal of my time. Not that I mind but—”
    “My fault. My fault entirely.” Micki nodded, placing a hand on her chest.
    Vera moved her gaze to the organist. “You need to end this.”
    “You’re probably right.” Nan continued pinching her nose.
    “You’ve had four weeks. We only have the next four days. This Advent-waiting exercise has been a hardship, but we’ve done it. We’ve put everything off until today. Advent has ended, and we’re taking over the sanctuary.
    “What?” Nan stared at Vera, waiting to be dressed down.
    “It has to be done. Everyone is coming. Now.”
    Nan caught the movement of Hettie waving her arms in the parking lot. The schoolteacher was directing her husband on how to unload an SUV of red poinsettias into a wheel barrow. A large Fraser fir staggered toward the door; Walt and Roger’s strained faces peeked through the branches. Lorena and Brynn were piling ribbons and greenery into the arms of a conscripted Pastor Poe.
    “I…” As Christmas marched through the door, Nan’s slow thoughts hinted that this was not about the play. This was about getting the blazes out of the way so the next tradition could settle into place. The play was still a fiasco, but fortunately, she’d never been accused of being “too Roman.” As a matter of fact, she thought the Creator of the Universe whipped out His most surprising miracles within the fuzz of chaos. “Oh! I see.” She turned to the waiting actors; with her hands in the air and a grin on her face, she exclaimed, “That’s a wrap. No more rehearsals. We’re all done!”

    Christmas Eve

    Parents helped their children out of their autos, trying to minimize the damage car doors and siblings could do to angels’ wings.
    “Look at the church!” a kid in the parking lot yelled.
    Large fir wreaths with golden bows adorned both doors. The windows held garlands of greenery plaited with diaphanous ribbons which glittered when they caught the light. An occasional snowflake drifted from the sky.
    Cedar and pine scents met them as they entered. The narthex twinkled with tiny white lights tucked throughout flower arrangements, baskets of pine cones, and garlands of holly.
    The live Christmas tree stood next to the sanctuary doors, ornamented with Chrismons , symbols representing God: interlocking circles for the Trinity, a Chi Rho symbol—Jesus’ initials in Greek, a gilded fish, a Tau cross, and white butterflies—representing new creations in Christ. Underneath the tree sat Roger’s giant pumpkin, lovingly decorated to resemble a mouse.
    After Thanksgiving, the pumpkin had lived in the kindergarteners’ Sunday school class. The five-year-olds quickly discovered it was big enough to ride and adorned it with paper eyes and a nose. They made ears and a tail, too, but those were repeatedly knocked off until the teacher glued soft felt pieces in their place. When they asked Roger what the pumpkin/mouse’s name was, he exclaimed, “ Jehovah Jirah . Herbrew for ‘God provides.’”
    The children