“Amaaa-zin-guh grace, how sweeeet dah soun-duh,” she inhaled, widening her eyes and puffing up her chest,”dat saaaved a wretch like meeeee!”  Rachel wiped her nose on her sleeve and drew in another breath to continue on with the next four measures.  She breathed in the same place every time they sang “Amazing Grace”, and it was all Ms. Jones could do to keep the other children from breathing every other measure, too.  Desperately, she gesticulated as if gathering fallen leaves into her chest, urging them to keep singing.  Rachel stopped after “lost” to suck in another loud, hoarse breath, and re-entered out of time.  Ms.  Jones gave Rachel a disapproving look.  Her mottled face flushed a splotchy crimson and her voice rose in volume in the final measures until she boomed, still out of time, over the entire choir.  “…but NOW I SEEEE!” 
Her late finish bounced off the silence of the parish hall.  A tall, red-headed boy let out a snigger from the back row.  Ms. Jones set down her conductor’s baton and crossed her arms over her chest in manifold frustration.  “Rachel, come with me, please,” she ordered.  
Rachel limped over to Ms. Jones, her face purple and her eyes brimming with tears.  She followed Ms. Jones out into the hall, her uneven gait clicking in a strange, syncopated rhythm on the cold tile. 
“I san-guh it, Ms. Jones, I san-guh da son-guh!”  She called after the fleeting figure, struggling to get out the “ng” sound.  “I san-guh good like Mommy says I do!” 
Ms. Jones stopped and turned to face Rachel Lion.  Her blond hair was knotted and frizzy.  The front of her jumper still bore the stains of the grape juice Host she had spilled on herself during the Mass.  The child was a mess.  And those eyes!  She never looked anyone in the eye… 
“I do good, Ms. Jones! I do good! I san-guh!”
“Rachel,” said Ms. Jones sweetly.  “Why don’t you sit in here and think about what good singing should sound like, hmm?”
Rachel opened her mouth, as if she wanted to say something, but seemed to think better of it, much to the surprise of Ms. Jones.  Nodding solemnly, she trudged into the empty meeting room.
“Take a seat, Rachel,” Ms. Jones ordered.  There were twelve cold, grey folding chairs in the meeting room.  Rachel chose one and sat.  It was the same chair she’d sat in her last time-out.  Ms. Jones waited until Rachel was sitting fully and completely on the chair, then shut the door and headed back to the parish hall.  Now she could finally work on the Christmas program without any interruptions. 
Ms. Jones wished things were like they used to be, before Pastor Rodgers retired and Pastor Lion was assigned to the church.  “Lion the Liberal”, she scoffed under her breath as she passed his empty office.  She approved of his measures like helping the homeless and the orphans- what good Christian wouldn’t, after all- but he invited single mothers to their services and even let them sit in the front rows!  He was tainting the morality of the younger generation! He had set up a special fund to buy a van to transport less fortunate members of the church to services and on errands.  He was turning them into dependents, in her opinion.  If Lion continued to throw away money like this, the church would have no money left!  And all of this didn’t even come near his daughter.  She was too stupid for her own good.  She couldn’t hold a decent conversation, was constantly fidgeting, and had no manners whatsoever.  A girl like that belonged in an institution, not sitting in the front row of the church knotting herself in Cat’s Cradle string during the sermon.  But he and his wife had insisted that she join the choir and perform in the Christmas program.  Ms. Jones had known from the beginning that Rachel would be a major inconvenience, but how could she say no to the pastor? Ah, well, Ms. Jones thought as she strode back into the parish hall, it’ll just be my cross to bear.
________
Ms. Jones had just finished dusting cranberry-colored blush on her cheeks in the powder room when the children began to arrive for the Christmas Pageant.  She had instructed them to arrive an hour early, six o’clock sharp, so that they could warm up and run through the program one more time before curtain.  She stood at the door to the parish hall collecting the children from their parents, beaming at how grown up her little children’s choir looked tonight.  There was Dean O’Connor, his hair combed neat and his collar folded perfectly over his knitted black sweater.  Elizabeth Marion’s Mary Jane’s were freshly polished and her red silk dress floated elegantly over her small frame.  Assembling on the risers, dressed in their holiday best, was a children’s choir of which Ms. Jones could not have been more proud.  And Rachel was nowhere in sight.
The choir finished warm-ups by 6:11, and finished rehearsing the program by 6:38.  Ms. Jones could hear the low rumbles of cars crunching over parking lot snow.  It was show time!
“All right, children,” Ms. Jones began her good-luck speech, “you have all worked very hard and I am extre-” Kathy McDougan raised her hand.
Slightly annoyed at this interruption, Ms. Jones called on Kathy.  “What is it, dear?”
“Ms. Jones, there’s someone at the door.”
Ms. Jones turned around and sure enough, peeking through the glass panes in the parish hall door, was Mr. Smith, the sound man.  Ms. Jones’ head began to spin a little.  Hopefully, nothing was wrong.
“Excuse me, children.  Talk quietly amongst yourselves!”  Ms. Jones hurried over to the door, anxiety mounting with every step.  This was the best children’s choir she’d directed in years, and Rachel wasn’t here to spoil it.  There was no option, everything had to be fine.
She took a breath and stuck her head out the parish hall door.  She could see a line of people starting to form outside the main sanctuary where the children were about to perform.  But that wasn’t right.  Mr. Smith was supposed to open the doors five minutes ago!
With as much calm as she could muster, Ms. Jones asked, “Mr. Smith, why haven’t you opened the doors?” 
“Ms. Jones, I woulda opened the doors earlier, but… well… we have sort of a… situation.”
It was Ms. Jones’ Christmas nightmare coming to life.  “A… situation?  What sort of a situation?”
“It’s Reverend’s daughter.  She won’t get off the stage.  She’s been sittin’ there ever since he dropped her off.”
Ms. Jones was livid.  “He dropped her off? What sort of irresponsible man ‘drops off’ his r******* daughter?”
Mr. Smith squirmed uneasily at the low, threatening hiss of Ms. Jones’ voice.  “Well, Mrs. Lion’s parents’ car wouldn’t start, so Reverend went to pick them up and asked me to get Rachel to you.  I took her into the sanctuary with me because I needed to grab some tools, and she took one look at the stage and just ran up there.  Now she won’t move.”
“Did you try dragging her?”
“Why else do you think I haven’t opened the doors yet, ma’am?  I’ve tried everything, she just won’t budge!”
“This cannot be happening.” Ms. Jones felt faint.  She could hear the whispers of the children behind her and could see waiting parents taking quick peeks at her and Mr. Smith from behind teased hairdos and fur wraps. 
She would be the laughingstock of the church if this concert didn’t go right.  A concert hadn’t gone wrong in years!  Rachel Lion would not ruin her reputation, not now, not ever.  There was only one thing to do.
“Give me the key, Mr. Smith,” Ms. Jones hissed.
“But ma’am-”
“I said: give me the key.”
He handed her a thin silver spike from his pocket and she strode out into the foyer, illuminating herself with false confidence.  Mrs. Roche, the church gossip, hurried over to her from the back of the line.  “What’s the holdup, Eloise?  I heard Reverend’s daughter is causing quite a scene in there.” 
Ms. Jones’ stomach churned.  “No, we’re just having some difficulties with the sound system, isn’t that right, Mr. Smith?”
Mr. Smith had sidled up behind her.  “Oh, um, yes, the wiring…”
That man was a genius.  He began to explain to Mrs. Roche all the intricacies of the church sound system, giving Ms. Jones the perfect opportunity to get away.  Clearly the man understood what grave danger the performance was in.  Forcing a smile, she strode over to the sanctuary door, unlocked it, and slipped in, clicking the door shut behind her.  Turning to face the altar, Ms. Jones caught her breath.  The sanctuary was beautiful.  Thick pine wreaths hung at even intervals along both sides of the room, and garlands with bronze bells and tin stars were strung about the ceiling beams.  The pews were adorned with red sashes and tinsel bows.  At the front of the church, the altar had been moved back to fit a huge nativity, the manger frame constructed of thin logs and draped with palm branches.  A feeding trough sat in one corner, and the Star was hang from the highest pipe of the organ.  Everything glimmered and glowed of Christmas.  Entranced, Ms. Jones began to walk forward towards the nativity, as if guided by a great, gentle hand.  As she got closer, she heard a thumping noise.  Then she remembered why she was hear.  All wonder evaporated from her heart and was replaced by a hot anger. 
Rachel was sitting inside the baby’s cradle, her legs dangling over the edge and swinging in time to an unheard rhythm.  Every time she swung, the other leg came back and kicked the cradle, thumping against the straw.  Her back was to Ms. Jones.  Ms. Jones was about to yell, but something stopped her.  Rachel had started to talk. And someone was answering her.
“I can’t wait for you to hear the son-guhs we gon’ sin-guh.”
“I can’t wait either.  Thanks for lettin’ me come in.”  The second voice was small and feeble.
Ms. Jones maneuvered into a pew so that she could see behind the large cradle.  She couldn’t make out who Rachel was talking to.
“We sin-guh just like ain-gels.”
“I’ve never heard angels sing before.  Mama says the op-er-a sounds like angels,” came the second voice, wistfully.
“Daddy say the ain-gels sin-guh for Jesus.”
“The baby?” Ms. Jones caught a flicker of movement in the shadowy corner of the stage.
“The Savior!  We sin-guh for Jesus tonight!  And you see us sin-guh, right?”
“Okay.  But do I get food, too?”
“You hun-gee?”  Rachel asked.
“Yeah.  Mama don’ have no money for food cause she bought us presents.”  At last, Mrs. Jones saw the hidden speaker.  A little girl, maybe six years old, came out of the shadows and stood next to Rachel at the cradle.  She was horribly thin and dirty, and her face was chapped with cold. 
“I got food!  I got food for YOU!”  Rachel clapped and swayed back and forth.  Then she got up and hobbled in her uneven way over to the side of the stage and withdrew a cookie from her bag.
“You eat it because you hun-gee?”
“Gee.  This is like the opera, ain’t it?  I get food and music all in one night!”  The little girl was beaming.
Ms. Jones watched as the little girl devoured the cookie in two large bites.  Her eyes were ravenous, like a hawk descending on its prey.
Rachel seemed to notice this. “You hun-gee a lot?”
“Yeah,” said the little girl.
“Jesus say in the Bible that he the bread of life!  You eat it you never be hun-gee again!  I can’t wait for him to come, he come tonight, RIGHT HERE!” Rachel jumped up and pointed to the cradle.
“He’s gonna give me food forever?  Gee, this is better than the opera!”  The little girl was beaming from ear to ear.  She gave Rachel a hug. “Thanks for lettin’ me stay.”
“Nooo problem.”
As Ms. Jones watched the whole exchange, something inside her softened.  No one in the outer hall had noticed this little, starving girl on their way in, and if they had, they hadn’t paid her any mind.  But here was Rachel, the girl whose name was a byword throughout the church, letting her in and giving her food and telling her about the love of Jesus. 
Ms. Jones made a noise in the back of her throat.  The pair whirled around and the little girl bolted towards the stage door.  “NO!  I mean… don’t go.”  Ms. Jones was surprised at the timidity of her own voice.  The little girl stopped moving, unsure of what to do.
“Miss Jones, I sorry I didn’ come sin-guh.  I go to my chair.”  Rachel hung her head and began to walk toward the stage door, too. 
“Wait, Rachel!”
Rachel paused, back still to Ms. Jones.
“We need you, Rachel.  Will you please come sing with us?”
“What ‘bout my friend?” she asked, still turned away, pointing to the girl.
“She can sit in the front row,” said Ms. Jones definitively. 
Rachel and the little girl descended from the stage and walked with Ms. Jones out of the sanctuary.  In the foyer, heads turned and whispers rippled through the congregation at the sight of Eloise Jones with Rachel and the homeless-looking girl, but Ms. Jones found that she really didn’t care.  As they neared the parish hall where the other children stood waiting, Rachel tugged on Ms. Jones’ sleeve.
“Merry Christmas, Ms. Jones.”
“Merry Christmas, Rachel.”