In the winter of 1990, my mother dropped me off at church with a gift for a baby. There was something about showing up early on a Saturday that felt off. Maybe it was because there was no traffic, and Dad didn’t have to leave thirty minutes early to grab his favorite spot.
“Have fun,” Mom said.
The other odd part was that I wasn’t wearing a blazer — or even my Sebagos — just jeans and a flannel over my faded Gotcha! T-shirt. It was the same one I’d scored the summer before on our beach trip to Emerald Isle. I might not have had a rat tail, but the shirt pushed the surf narrative I was trying to embody. With its enormous blue-and-pink logo stamped across the front, I felt like I was stepping into the opening scene of The Breakfast Club, like I’d been sentenced to Saturday detention for some spectacular screw-up. Except I hadn’t screwed up.
I was just there to play a Wise Man.
There had been whispers about who might play what part. We all knew that one of the seniors would be Mary, another Joseph, and Gabriel too. But the majority of parts were kept secret until the day of the only rehearsal… unless you knew somebody who couldn’t keep a secret.
I happened to be sitting next to a girl I really liked. But we’d never spoken before. “Who are you playing?” I asked. She seemed almost offended by the question. “A cow,” she whispered.
Together, all the actors squeezed into the first row of pews. Mrs. Jones stood up front. She was sweet, but all business, pointing at her clipboard as she went down the list.
“Herod? Is King Herod here?” A boy named Stutts raised his hand. He was only a sophomore, but he drove a black Camaro, so we all thought he deserved the part. “Here.”
“And what about my market vendors?” More hands went up along with shepherds, angels, travelers, an innkeeper, and three Roman soldiers. At first, I wanted to carry a spear and shield. But once I learned there were several animal parts, I was perfectly happy being Caspar, a man from the East.
My traveling companions were guys I knew from school. Mason, the second Magi, had a little stubble on his cheek, but Alex was like me, clean-shaven, pale, with freckles. We were not exactly a distinguished-looking delegation from the East.
We ran through the procession once, maybe twice, stopping whenever somebody forgot where to go or a float hit the side of a pew. Mrs. Jones made a few corrections, then some housekeeping announcements. We could wear socks if we wanted to, but going barefoot would be more authentic. That was it for rehearsal.
By Sunday, the whole thing would be real. There were no dressing rooms — just a basement where everyone pulled on a robe or tunic and tried to transform themselves into somebody who belonged in Bethlehem. The best part about being a Wise Man was that we were all given beards.
“Turn your cheek,” the volunteer helping me get ready said. The glue was wiped on our jawlines with a tiny brush that looked like a White-Out applicator but smelled toxic. “Now press.”
While I stood there pinching my beard, the girl playing the cow came up to me in her costume. It was essentially a white-and-brown blanket with ears attached. She looked at me. I looked at her. Neither of us said anything. There didn’t seem to be a natural next sentence.
Then the organ started. The first float rolled into the nave. The story began.
The shepherds went first. Mary and Joseph followed, both taking their roles very seriously. Then came the angels, drifting down the aisle in white gowns, trying to look heavenly and mostly succeeding at looking cold.
Then it was our turn. Three teenagers who, moments earlier, had been standing around in a church basement making fun of each other’s costumes. We climbed onto the float.
“Don’t move,” Mrs. Jones reminded us. We didn’t.
The float began its slow journey down the center aisle. The wheels squeaked. I remember trying not to laugh. Mostly, though, I remember looking out at the congregation and realizing that everyone was watching us. Not judging us. Not really. Just watching.
For a few minutes, we weren’t high school kids in jeans and flannel shirts. We weren’t freshmen or juniors or seniors. We weren’t the girl who played the cow or the guy with the black Camaro or the kid who had almost certainly been assigned Census Clerk because nobody could think of anything else for him. We were part of the story.
The float stopped in front of the altar, and the three of us — Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar — stepped down and knelt. My little box of gold was really a spray-painted Pop-Tart box. For the first time all morning, nobody corrected me, so I stayed put. The whole thing probably lasted an hour.
At 16, I had no idea what a Wise Man was supposed to know. I only knew I had been given a costume and a job: show up, carry a gift, and don’t move.
I think about that sometimes when I watch my own two boys, 15 and 17, heading out into the world. There isn’t much you can tell them at this age that they haven’t already heard. You can offer advice, but they may or may not want it. You can remind them to slow down, check the oil, bring a jacket, answer a text. You can drive them somewhere, pick them up, listen to a story about somebody you’ve never met, and somehow develop strong opinions about that person.
Mostly, you can be there. Which sounds simple until you realize how much of being a father is knowing when to step in and when to stay put. You don’t always know what to say. Sometimes you move when you should have stayed put. Sometimes you stay put when you should have moved. But you show up.
I suppose that’s the part of being a Wise Man nobody explained to me in 1990. And the costume? Well, these days, I don’t get one. But if you’re lucky, nobody notices the beard is starting to peel off.
