It was the first Christmas Eve since I’d met the nuns, and our plans kept changing. At first we were going sledding before the candlelight service, then we decided to meet up with friends, then those friends invited us to another gathering just a few blocks from Calvary, the American Baptist Church where I had only recently started going on Sundays. After seven years as a member of the small, tight-knit Mennonite congregation, I’d made the painful decision to switch churches six months earlier. That’s how I found myself on this holiest of nights pulling into the driveway of a strange house to spend the holiday with people I barely knew. And they were church people.
The car door slammed open and I unbuckled Eliza from her car seat, slipping the harness from her winter coat. Josh carried Rowan on his hip as we navigated icy steps. Our hosts were kind, meeting us at the door and showing us where we could stash our boots and mittens. Inside, people lingered around a large kitchen island covered in dishes: a platter of cheese and crackers, a ceramic bowl of vegetarian Swedish meatballs, and plates of homemade Christmas cookies. I had sent Josh to Aldi before it closed early to pick up something to bring, and in he carried a cheap salami and cheese platter. It wasn’t homemade, this wasn’t home, and it was freaking Christmas Eve.
I sipped a glass of red wine and made small talk, my eyes darting to my children as they joined the chaotic play of the others, gleefully dumping out boxes of toys on the floor. Rowan, who had just turned three, was potty-training. Every ten minutes or so I walked by and whispered into his ear, “Do you need to go?” “NO!” he said, throwing a hand in the air. “Okay!” I said, backing away before confirming that his pants were, indeed, dry.
My cheeks flushed, I chatted and introduced myself to people I didn’t know and thanked the hosts again for including us relative strangers at the last minute. Josh seemed to be holding his own with this group of Christians, talking about Marvel movies and the travails of bike commuting in the winter. I was new to this congregation and wanted these church people to like us, to see us as normal, even though only I attend services while Josh stays home.
Soon someone announced that it was time for the candlelight service at church a few blocks away, so we scrambled to put on our hats and coats. Eliza cried that she couldn’t find her mittens, but after a few minutes of futile searching I said, “I’m sure they will turn up later.” Outside the cold air stung my eyes and I held tightly to Josh’s arm and, while passing our parked car, we discovered our daughter’s missing mittens lying in the snow. I smiled at him, and he said, “It’s a Christmas miracle!” Lost, then found. Our kids shrieked and ran down the salted sidewalks with our friends’ children, and we took turns guiding them away from the busy street, herding them toward the church.
The sanctuary smelled of pine trees and glowed with lights, the pews filled with husbands like mine, who only attend church services on Christmas or Easter. The pastor was in a suit and women wore Nordic sweaters and men had on button-downs with khakis. I only recognized a few faces in the crowd.
We took the stairs to the balcony, finding our way in the dark, shushing our children as they talked loudly to each other in excitement. My good friends Bonnie and Luke were in-between churches and decided to attend the candlelight service here, too. Their kids and ours grabbed hands and started crawling over pews. Another child discovered crayons and paper in the back and soon a clot of kids was lying on their stomachs, drawing.
“Just let them be,” Josh whispered as I tried to steer my daughter back to the pew. I sunk into the hardbacked seat, trying to concentrate on the sermon, wondering what my friends Bonnie and Luke thought of the church, wondering what Josh was feeling, wondering if this plan had been worth it.
“That’s mine!” said a child’s voice from the back, ringing loud as a bell. I got up again to tell the kids, in my most ferocious whisper, “For the last time, be quiet.”
That’s when I saw my son, a strained looked on his face. I grabbed his torso, then pulled back the elastic on his pants. Oh no. Why had I thought tonight was a good night for underwear?
“Let me get you out of these,” I said to him, leading him to a private back corner of the balcony with the diaper bag over my shoulder. As I changed his clothes, I laughed under my breath. At least it’s fitting, I thought. Baby Jesus probably peed his pants on Christmas too.
When the closing hymn mercifully came, we walked down to the main floor and an usher handed out candles with those paper turtlenecks to keep the wax from dripping onto your fingers. We sang “Silent Night” as our children gleefully waved lit candles. Who thought this was a good idea? I wondered, crouching down to push back their hands when the candles got too close to their faces. My heart pounded, and I started to sweat under my heavy sweater. I shot a look at Josh. He apparently had decided not to fight this parenting battle with me but was standing upright and, of all things, singing the words to the hymn. Just great. Of all the people in this family who get to sing “Silent Night” on Christmas Eve, surely the Christian should be the one?
We clomped back out into the dark night, back a few blocks to our car. When the door slammed shut, I exhaled, long and slow.
“That was kind of a disaster,” I said.
Josh kept his eyes on the road but reached out to grab my mittened hand and gave it a squeeze. I looked back at the kids in the backseat and I wondered what memories they’d have of church, of Christmas—of their family in these awkward situations, never quite fitting anywhere. I turned to look out the window and watched the gray snowbanks blur as we drove through streetlamp pools of light.