“Holy Infant, so tender and mild.” Mary gazed down at the doll’s sweet painted features and stroked the porcelain cheek. “Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace.”
Her voice soared to the high notes and caressed the low notes, with a waver that sounded right, poignant. A peasant girl feeling both the weight and the joy of her gift, her insufficiency to do God’s will and her determination to do so despite her weakness, through her weakness.
Mary’s vision blurred. She tipped her face to heaven and launched into the second verse, overcome by her own insufficiency, her own determination, the joy of accepting her own weakness and the Lord’s strength.
Through her singing, maybe she could help others praise the Lord, and wouldn’t that be glorious?
The final verse seemed too short and fleeting to convey the richness of who God was, but her role was complete, and others had songs to sing.
Mary returned to the stable while the shepherds came down the aisle, singing “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night.”
She returned baby Jesus to his manger and arranged his blanket, her smile heartfelt and genuine. In Michigan, she’d wear her red coat and join a new choir and do her very best on the job. Whatever else God asked her to do, she’d do it without flinching.
Ed gave her a concerned look and a handkerchief. Why?
Her cheeks tingled with happy tears. She hadn’t even noticed. She laughed and dried her cheeks. “The joy of the Lord is my strength.”
44
Sunday, December 7, 1941
Today was the day. No putting it off one moment longer. The church service seemed to last ten hours, and Jim fidgeted in the pew. How could he concentrate on the sermon with Quintessa beside him and Mary in the gallery behind him? How could he sit still when he needed to talk to Quintessa right now, end this charade, and declare his own path?
When the recessional played, Jim stifled a sigh of relief and led Quintessa outside onto the sidewalk.
“It’s so cold today. I smell snow in the air.” Quintessa chattered about the weather without a break long enough for Jim to ask her to lunch.
He shifted from one foot to the other, his gaze darting between the chatty blonde and the church door. Soon a quiet brunette emerged, wrapped in a red coat.
“Miss Stirling?” A middle-aged lady took Mary by the elbow. “You sang beautifully last night. So moving.”
The woman’s husband set his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “That’s all Nellie could talk about—how you made her cry.”
Jim stood close, ready to rescue Mary if needed.
But Mary smiled and covered Nellie’s hand with her own. “I’m glad you enjoyed the pageant. Everyone did a fine job.”
“There she is.” A woman in a very tall hat squeezed into the circle on Mary’s other side. “Last night—that was the most beautiful thing. Don’t you agree, Nellie?”
“Certainly. How you stumbled and hesitated—it reminded me that Mary was just a girl, like any of us. She must have been terrified, but she overcame her fears and obeyed the Lord.”
Tall-hat Lady patted her chest and blinked. “You made me cry, young lady.”
Jim had to smile. He’d heard an awful lot of feminine sniffles in the audience after Mary sang.
She smiled, both modest and confident. “I understand her. I stumbled and hesitated because of my own fears, but the Lord gave me the joy and strength to obey, to sing.”
Jim’s chest ached, he loved her so much. When would he finally have the chance to tell her?
“Well, it was simply lovely. Thank you, dear.” Nellie squeezed Mary’s arm, and the trio departed.
Mary turned to Jim and Quintessa and made a funny face. “Perhaps I should have worn Arch’s curly blonde wig this morning.”
Jim laughed. “Nonsense. You’re doing great.”
Then his breath hitched. He needed to talk to Quintessa alone. Now. That meant he needed to be rude to Mary.
Mary looked up at Jim, her eyebrows drawn together. “Um, Jim, I don’t mean to be rude, but could I have Quintessa to myself for lunch? I need to talk to her about something.”
