This one I wrote a while ago, and it was snaffled up at the time in several different versions by various eccleisiastical markets who loved the Christmas angle and just wen crazy with it. It was perhaps not themost widely distributed short story I ever wrote, but it was certainly amongst the most widely sold ones (it was even broadcast on radio…) However, as I said, this was a good many years ago, and since I found it again knocking around my hard drive, and since it’s THAT time of the year again, I’d like to share it with all y’all. Consider it my Christmas gift. So, with no further ado – it’s on to…
Archangel Gabrielle
When the Virgin Mary came down with chickenpox the day before the Sunday School Nativity, there was a Christmas crisis at St. Michael’s. They had been short on cast anyway; they only had two girls in the class, and the other had been slated to play the Archangel Gabriel. Now perforce she had to slip into Mrs Anderson’s blue chiffon scarf and would be left holding the baby, so to speak. That left the key role of the Archangel vacant.
“But we have to have an angel,” fussed the Reverend. His glasses had quite misted up with emotion.
“Well, we can’t touch the Three Wise Men,” said Peter Wilcox practically. He was the new curate, and it was his daughter Melissa who’d stepped into the Virgin Mary’s shoes. They’d been with the community only just over a month; the gossips hinted at a tragedy, with the young Mrs Wilcox dying dreadfully in some sort of accident… or was it of some thoroughly romantic incurable disease?… and Peter had come here with his daughter to get away from the memories. “And we only have two shepherds as it is. Take one away, and the Archangel would have had a pretty useless job, coming down to warn a solitary shepherd of the great event.”
And that was the trouble. With Jeannie Garnet out of the running, there were only seven other kids in the Nativity – and they all seemed to be essential right where they were.
“Perhaps we should cancel it this year,” suggested Mrs Grace, the organist, morosely.
“Oh, no!” said the Reverend, starting up with shock, his eyes quite wide behind the spectacles. “Why, it would be like… like cancelling Christmas.”
“And the children, they’ll be so disappointed,” murmured Anne de la Harpe. In her Sunday guise she was the new Sunday School teacher, after her weekly stint in the classroom proper of the local primary. “They’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.”
“Well, I can’t see what else to do,” said Mrs Grace, determined as ever to put the most pessimistic face on things.
“But we must think of something,” said Anne.
“Well, dear, unless you play the angel…” began Mrs Grace.
Anne shot her a startled look. “I?” she said. “But it’s the children’s show. It’s silly. How can I possibly…”
“No, hang on,” said Peter slowly, “it’s not such a bad idea. It is the Sunday School Nativity, and you’re technically part of the Sunday School. And the kids would love it. And besides, it would give the Archangel the proper perspective as the messenger of God.”
Anne laughed self-consciously, her cheeks going scarlet. “No. No, I couldn’t possibly.”
“But you’d be saving the Nativity,” said the Reverend.
She shook her head. “No, really. What would I wear, for a start? The angel’s costume was made for someone a tad smaller than me.”
“That’s not a problem,” said Mrs Grace, going into an unexpected reverse. “I could run you up a simple white gown in a jiffy. And a bit of silver paint on cardboard&