Anna (Beat): But that’s the point, isn’t it? Hope shines brightest in the darkest night. That’s when we need it most.
Marilyn: We don’t need it when all it gives us is false expectations that get crushed time after time after time.
Anna: True. That’s why hope has to have a partner. (Waits a beat, while Marilyn stares stonily at her) Faith.
Marilyn (Sneers): Faith. That’s no better than false hope.
Anna: Unless we put our faith into something that’s absolutely faithful.
Marilyn: I suppose you mean God.
Anna: See! You do know the answers!
Marilyn: How can I? When today was just like yesterday and tomorrow will be no different?
Anna: But today wasn’t like yesterday, was it? (More statement than question.)
Marilyn: What? What do you mean?
Anna: It wasn’t. That’s why you’re here.
Marilyn: You mean—in this café?
Anna: Yes. What happened today? Something, I’m sure, of (a grin) moment.
Marilyn: There he was, sitting on that big chair, with a long line of children to see him.
Anna: Just like yesterday?
Marilyn: Exactly. And he didn’t look anymore like Santa today than he did yesterday. Too thin, too gaunt. We had to pad his suit and buy a wig and beard. His voice isn’t so hearty, either. But the kids keep coming. They remember him from previous years and they’re eager to see him. They don’t see the ravages of cancer.
Anna: No, kids tend to remember the spirit of a person.
Marilyn: Yeah, and he’s still got that. Even more so!
Anna: He must be a wonderful man.
Marilyn: He is. My best friend.
Anna: So you took pictures.
Marilyn: I could see his face getting more drawn as the day went on. But the children kept coming. He couldn’t turn them away. His face was gray, his smile bright. Even in his fatigue, his eyes sparkled their delight with each child.
Anna: Maybe he finds strength in their happiness.
Marilyn: Oh, he does. But still…
Anna: I know. You’re his wife. It’s hard to watch your man suffer like that.
Marilyn: Not suffering. Not really. Just wasting.
Anna: Must be hard to concentrate on your own job.
Marilyn: Yeah. I took picture after picture until each child looked the same to me and I thought there never would be an end.
Anna: What about today?
Marilyn: Today?
Anna: Today is different, remember?
Marilyn: Okay, okay. You’re right. Today was different. There was Megan.
Anna: Megan?
Marilyn: A little girl. Actually, I had noticed her because she waited so patiently, so quietly.
Anna: A contrast to the other children?
Marilyn: Yeah, they were just having fun, but it gets so noisy sometimes. They run off and their parents yell. Some of them push a little, and cry if they think somebody else cuts in.
Anna: But not Megan.
Marilyn: She just held her father’s hand and stayed close to him. Such a solemn little face!
Anna: She must have been adorable.
Marilyn: Wide, wondering eyes. She only looked at Chuck. At Santa. She didn’t notice the laughter, the shouting, the commotion around her. She was intent only on Santa.
Anna (Smiles): I guess she had quite a list for him.
Marilyn: No, she didn’t. She sat on Chuck’s lap, told him her name and her age.
Anna: How old is she?
Marilyn: Four.
Anna: What did she want for Christmas?
Marilyn: Nothing.
Anna: Nothing?
Marilyn: Well, no toys. Chuck does have to prompt the shy ones. He’s so good with them! Not that Megan was shy. Just very, very focused.
Anna: What did she want?
Marilyn: For her mommy to get better.
Anna: Ah.
Marilyn: I started crying as I took the pictures.
Anna: Cancer?
Marilyn: Yes. Megan told Chuck it’s a bad disease. She was so earnest. It broke my heart.
Anna: It’s breaking mine.
Marilyn: Chuck just closed his eyes and held her close.
Anna: The only real response.
Marilyn: She nestled against him. “Can you make her better, Santa?” she asked.
Anna: My dear.
Marilyn: I know. Two big tears rolled down his face as he told her, “No, Megan honey, I can’t make her better.”
Anna: There are no right answers, are there?
Marilyn (Shaking her head): Megan was just asking what I’ve been asking for months. Make her better, Santa. Make him better, God!
Anna: What did Chuck do?
Marilyn: He told her that he would tell his Boss.
Anna: His Boss?
Marilyn: Yes. He said the Boss doesn’t like it when people are sick. He said, “I’ll tell my Boss about your mommy and He will help.”
Anna: Ah.
Marilyn: Chuck’s with them now. He went with Megan and her father to see her mother in the hospital. He’s going to introduce them to his Boss.
Anna: His Boss. I’d never heard God described quite that way before. Does Chuck believe in miracles?
(Sally enters with her snow jacket and boots on. She hovers just inside the kitchen door, not wanting to interrupt the ladies.)
Marilyn: Yes. Well, no. He doesn’t believe in miracles, he says. He believes in the God of miracles. He won’t put his trust in miracles. He’ll trust in Jesus.
Anna: What a wonderful way of looking at it.
Marilyn: Well, I don’t see it!
Anna: I don’t understand.
Marilyn: I don’t see how our puny little lives can mean anything to the Creator of the Universe!
Anna: If you believe God can do anything…
Marilyn: But why should He? Megan has no more moment than Chuck or I do. Why in the name of Heaven should He care? Why? Why? (As she rants, she’s shoving her mail back into her bag, preparing to go. Some of the cards fall on the floor and Sally moves in to pick them up. As she hands them to Marilyn, the top one catches her eye.)
Sally: Oh, my. May I? (Reading aloud a paraphrase of Psalm 30) “My child, I, the God of the Universe, Maker and Sustainer of all things, have lifted you up. Yes, you. You who cry and think you do not matter. You cried out to me for help and I healed you… Sing, my child! Rejoice! My anger lasts for a moment. A moment, only. But my regard for you, my child, my love, yes, my deepest favour for you lasts a lifetime! A lifetime and beyond.” (She breathes a sigh.) Oh.
Marilyn (Takes the card and continues reading, allowing the words to sink into her soul): “Oh, my child, you weep now. Your weeping may last all night. But listen, my child! My joy comes in the morning. I turn your mourning into dancing. I take away your garments of grief and dress you in a radiant robe of joy. Be silent no more but sing! Sing my praises!”
Anna (Looks up, smiling): That sounds like a love letter to you. From your Boss. Merry Christmas, my dear.
Marilyn (Examining the card): Why, that’s a paraphrase of Psalm 30. The Bible.
Anna: God’s Word. And it’s for you, just for you.
Marilyn: For me?
Anna: Yes, for you. Your very own ray of hope. You see? You do have moment! (This letter has a triple whammy as all three women take the message for themselves.)
Marilyn: I have moment.
Anna: Yes.
Marilyn: And Chuck. And Megan.
Anna: And Megan’s mom.
Marilyn (Whisper): Yes.
Anna: Merry Christmas.
Marilyn (A deep shuddering sigh): Merry Christmas. And thank you.
Anna: You know who to thank.
Marilyn: Yes, I do. (Closing her eyes) Thank you, Jesus.
Anna: Amen.
Sally: Amen.
Curtain
~~~~
Megan’s Moment
A Monodrama<
br />
This monodrama is “A Christmas Moment” , the preceding one-act play, rewritten in order to be performed by one woman.
Themes: Faith, comfort, meaning of life, God’s care, miracles.
Time: Approximately ten minutes.
Cast: Marilyn—A professional photographer. She is just returning home from the mall where she and her husband have been doing the Santa Claus photography. She should be wearing something Christmassy.
Props: A camera bag and camera, a photograph of a man in a Santa suit, a stack of mail that includes Christmas cards, and a card with the scripture as paraphrased at the end of the monologue.
Scene: It’s a living room in a middle class type room. The most basic set needs only a chair and side-table at center stage. A more elaborate set could have a sofa and coffee table canted at center stage, with a coat tree up left and a rocking chair down right. The room could be decorated for Christmas with a tree up right. Marilyn enters the room, carrying a camera bag and some opened Christmas cards. She is returning home after work. She carefully puts the camera bag on table and opens it, then absently hangs her coat on a vertical coat rack. She misses and it falls unnoticed to the floor as she walks away, almost in a trance. She sits on the sofa, still holding the cards.
Why? (Shakes her head, bemused. A wry smile) The great philosophical question of the ages. (Looks up fiercely) Why indeed? (Holds out her hands) Here’s my life—such a little speck, a minute dot on the pages of time. (Drops hands, turns her body on the sofa) Why should I—what I do—what I want—make a difference? The universe existed without me for millennia. Cosmic reality will continue when I am no more. (Shrugs) Here I am. One life amongst billions. One heartbeat amongst—amongst... (Flings cards on coffee table, gets up and paces, frustrated) Oh, how can I expect to have any kind of significance? Any impact? Or even any moment?
(Picks up camera bag) A photographer. A recorder of moments. (Takes out camera) Maybe my pictures of moments will last beyond my moment. (Holds camera to breast briefly, then puts it down) Maybe. How many pictures are there of sunsets and seascapes? Of racing horses and smiling brides? (Here’s the crux) How many photographs capture a child’s wonder? An old man’s hope? (Turns her back to the camera) My attempts at art are no more than any others. These, too, shall fade away.
(Picks up a picture of her husband in a Santa suit) And what of Chuck? My husband? (Caresses the picture, deeply in her thoughts) My dear partner, my best friend? The perennial Santa Claus?
Year after year we are asked to do the Santa photography at the mall. Not because of my skill with the lenses and F-stops. No, not because of that. There are many who can do just as well, or better.
No, it’s because of Chuck. Santa Claus. (Looks off, remembering) How the children love him! He draws them to him—because he loves them. Each one is individual, special. They sit on his lap, and for that brief moment they are the only ones in his world. (Her eyes glisten as she remembers how she, too, has felt the center of his world) The pictures shine.
So what of Chuck? Will his life be of no moment?
I didn’t want him to do Santa this year. (Speaks tightly, through a lump in the throat) The chemo has been so hard on him. (Draws a deep breath) He was all set to start radiation therapy when the doctors told him to stay away from small children for 24 hours after each treatment. The radiation in his body, they said, would be too strong for them.
“ Wait,” they said.
But he said, “No, you wait. I must be there for the children.”
They shook their heads and said they’d wait. (Holds tightly to her control) But it might be too late. Too late for Chuck.
“ But not,” Chuck said, “too late for Santa Claus. Not too late for the children.”
(Hugs self and almost whispers) And never too late for a miracle.
(Goes to down right chair—it’s his chair—visualizing it) There he was today. (Behind the chair, stroking the back) Sitting on that big chair, (long arm gesture indicating line) with a long line of children to see him. (Turns head away. Another reminder that things are different this year.) We had to pad his suit this year. He’s lost a lot of weight. It was too big for him. We had to buy him a wig and a beard. They itch. He prefers his own hair, but this year he didn’t have any.
I could see his face (hand out-stretched as if she could touch his face) drawn with fatigue (drops hand) but the children kept coming. (Rubs her hand along her other arm) He couldn’t turn them away. (Small proud smile) His face was gray, his smile bright. (Feels some of the wonder) His eyes sparkled their delight with each child. I took picture after picture until each child looked the same to me and I thought there would never be an end.
(Pauses, squeezes her eyes shut) Until Megan.
(Another pause, turns head to “look” at Megan in line) I noticed Megan standing patiently in line. (Stands, still “seeing” it) She waited quietly, holding her father’s hand. Face solemn, eyes wide and wondering, she didn’t notice the laughing, shouting commotion around her. She didn’t see the bustling shoppers or hear the frenzied canned muzak. When her turn came, she pulled her daddy’s face down to her and kissed him. He hugged her tightly and sent her to sit on Santa’s lap.
Perched there, she gravely informed Chuck, “I’m Megan. I’m four.”
Chuck didn’t “Ho, ho, ho.” He said, “Hi, Megan. What do you want for Christmas this year?”
“ Well, I don’t really want any toys,” she began.
“ What? No Elmo doll?” he asked gently. (Use whatever toy is the current “hot” item)
“ Elmo is nice,” she agreed, “but that’s not what I want.”
“ What do you want, Megan?” my husband prompted.
“ My mommy to be better,” she said simply.
“ Is she sick?”
Megan nodded. “She has cancer. It’s a bad disease.”
Chuck shut his eyes and held the little girl close. “Yes, Megan, it’s a bad disease.”
“ Can you make her better, Santa?” she asked. She nestled against him.
Two big tears rolled down his face. “No, Megan honey, I can’t make her better.”
“ You can’t?” she said in a small, mournful voice.
“ No, I can’t,” Chuck said. “But I can tell my Boss.”
(The words come with difficulty) “You have a Boss?”
“ Yes, I do, Megan. He doesn’t like it when people are sick. I’ll tell Him about your mommy and He will help.” Chuck then gestured to Megan’s father.
(She stands and wanders to sofa, sits, picking up cards. Absently stands some up on the coffee table, until she has only the scripture card left) He’s with them now. He’s gone with them to see her mother in hospital and he’s going to introduce them to his Boss. (A bitter little chuckle) His Boss. Another word for “Lord.”
Oh, he doesn’t believe in miracles, he says. Oh, no. He won’t put his trust in miracles. No, he believes in the God of miracles. He’ll put his trust in Jesus.
(Storms off, shaking the last card fiercely at God) Well, I don’t see how our puny little lives can mean anything to the Creator of the Universe. Oh, God can do anything, but why should He? Megan has no more moment than Chuck or I do. (Hard) Why, in the name of Heaven, should He care? Why? Why? (Punches the words, waving the card for emphasis. Suddenly sees the picture of Jesus on the front and stops, double takes. Opens card and begins to read. Stops, looks up, with a hand to her mouth. Then reads it again, this time aloud. It is a paraphrase of Psalm 30. She drifts to a chair and sits. She reads haltingly and then as the truth pours into her, with greater confidence. It shouldn’t be read glibly, but as if she is hearing it for the first time)
“ My child,
I, the God of the Universe,
Maker and Sustainer of all things,
have lifted you up.
Yes, you.
You who cry and think you do not matter.
You cried out to me for help and I healed you…
&n
bsp; Sing, my child! Rejoice!
My anger lasts for a moment.
A moment, only.
But my regard for you, my child,
my love,
yes, my deepest favour for you lasts a lifetime!
A lifetime and beyond.
Oh, my child, you weep now.
Your weeping may last all night.
But listen, my child!
My joy comes in the morning.
I turn your mourning into dancing.
I take away your garments of grief
and dress you in a radiant robe of joy.
Be silent no more but sing!
Sing my praises!”
(She puts the card down, closes her eyes from which tears are flowing, and whispers) Merry Christmas. (Looks up and softly, deeply) Thank you. Thank you, Lord. Lord Jesus. Thank you.
~~~~
Christmas Truce
A Short Story
This is a recounting of the famous story of the Christmas Truce in World War 1, told from the point of view of a fictional German soldier. A couple of Christmas carols are featured and it would be nice if the storyteller could sing the lines in the languages as scripted.
Franz huddled on his makeshift bed that Christmas Eve and shuddered as yet another barrage thundered overhead. When he had enlisted in the army on his seventeenth birthday, just a few months before, he had been full of passion for the Fatherland. Eager to serve his country, he had enlisted in the German army as soon as he could. Now he couldn’t keep his despair at bay. The battle was unrelenting and every day somebody he knew died. The mud in the trenches seeped into everything, covering it with a cold, dark scum. He shivered under his damp, smelly blanket and remembered other winters, other Christmases.
As the guns roared in the distance, he thought of his cousin, Bobby. Bobby was English. Well, half English. His mother, Franz’s aunt was German. They lived in England, so Bobby was really English. Franz remembered one Christmas he spent in England with Bobby. He remembered how they decorated the tree on Christmas Eve. A good German tradition, Franz had boasted. Yeah, but how’s this for a good English tradition? Bobby had asked, producing a soccer ball. The two boys raced out into the garden where they had a good game of football. Yes, Franz thought, that’s how Christmas is meant to be kept, not deep in eight-foot trenches shooting at each other. Bobby, he thought. Bobby might be over there, on the other side.
The next morning, as Franz crept out of bed, he was startled to see a Christmas tree outside the trench. Somebody had stuck a small pine tree in the mud and even now soldiers were crumpling the paper from their cigarette packages into tiny silver balls and sticking them on the branches. Somebody nearby started singing: “O Tannenbaum! O Tannenbaum! Wie treu sind deine Blaetter!” Gradually others joined in until there was a great chorus welling up to the skies. As the song came to an end, the men let a deep silence overtake them, for miraculously, for a brief period, the crashing of gunfire had ceased. As they stood, enjoying the respite, across the bleak no-man’s land drifted the sounds of more singing: “O Christmas tree! O Christmas tree! Thou tree most fair and lovely!”