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Emmaline slapped her white wicker breakfast tray onto her bed with more vigor than she intended. Her cup of herbal tea sloshed onto her wheat toast. "If I've got to retire," she said, climbing back into bed, "I might as well try to enjoy it."

For forty-five years Emmaline had worked at the post office. Last month the postmaster had told her she had to retire. "I'm sorry, Miss Emmaline, but it's the law."

"Law or no law," she said, dipping her soggy toast into her soft-boiled egg, "a body needs to be needed."

She unrolled the morning newspaper and stared at the headline. "There, now! Just look at that!"

Her trembling finger traced the words:

Mayor Cancels Park Nativity Scene
Jonesboro Mayor Frederick Parker today instructed park employees not to set up the traditional nativity scene in Central Park this year. The creche has been a part of the city's yearly Christmas decorations for more than thirty years. Had civil liberties groups protested the religious figures displayed on public property? Mayor Parker answered, "No, but as mayor, I have an obligation to protect the religious liberties of all."

Emmaline permitted herself a feminine snort. The same old Freddie Parker. Acting just like he did when he was a kid and the terror of East Ninth Street. He doesn't care a hoot about religious liberty. He's running for re-election.

"I wish somebody would put Freddie Parker in his place," she said to her reflection in the bathroom mirror, "and put Jesus back where he belongs!"

"Well, Emmaline," her reflection asked, "why don't you do something about it? Go see the mayor."

"You remember what a rotten kid Mayor Frederick Parker was when he lived next door to us. I might lose my postal pension. And if I starve, you starve."

"Emmaline Effingham Crawford: you know very well you won't lose your pension for being brave enough to stand up to the mayor."

"I know," Emmaline answered herself brokenly, "I need to be brave. All right, I'll try it."

Taking on city hall
Emmaline dressed quickly, then hurried to catch the bus that went to city hall. The mayor's secretary politely explained he was in conference. Could her business wait until January?

"Oh, no. I need to ask him to let them put up the Christmas creche in the park."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Crawford. The mayor's mind is quite made up about the Christmas scene."

That afternoon, to Emmaline's surprise, the mayor phoned. "Of course I remember you, Miss Emmaline. I'm sorry I was busy when you stopped by."

"Freddie—Mr. Mayor—please let them put the Christmas creche up. You can't have Christmas without Christ."

"Miss Emmaline, there is no room for displays of Jesus on public property in Jonesboro."

After he hung up, his words echoed in Emmaline's mind: "No room for Jesus in Jonesboro."

On Sunday morning those words were still on her mind when she gathered her Sunday school class of eight- and nine-year-olds around her. "There was no room for Jesus in the inn at Bethlehem," she said sadly. "And now, in our very own town, there is no room for Jesus. What shall we do about it?"

"Let's sue the mayor," Eddie said.

Emmaline hugged him. "That's an idea. Keep thinking."

"The parade," Brandy said softly, unexpectedly. "We could be in the Christmas parade."

"A parade, Brandy?"

"The Christmas parade is next Sunday afternoon. We could have a float with the manger scene on it."

"Neat-o!" the children chorused.

"I get dibs on being a wise man," said Charlie.

"I'll be King Herod with the sword," said Eddy.

Anastasia said softly, "I'll be an angel."

"Children," Emmaline said, "let's not get carried away. Where will we get a float? A truck to pull it? Costumes? Can we get ready in a week?"

The children dismissed such questions. Each child knew someone who might help.

"All right, if the pastor says it's all right, we'll try it."

Unfortunately, the pastor thought it was a great idea, so Emmaline was committed in spite of herself.

Ready to roll
There was a cold, penetrating mist on Sunday that threatened to turn to rain. The Sunday school float—though amateurish—was ready. Fred Sims, whose pickup truck they were using to pull the float, carefully drove up to the appointed staging area.

The parade marshal consulted his clipboard. "Sixth Street Community Church? You follow Number 22—the horses."

Emmaline swallowed. "Follow the horses?"

"Right! Behind Entry 22, Sam's Feed and Seed."

She turned restlessly to check the children. They stood on the float in stiff-kneed array, a dismal caricature of a Christmas nativity scene. Their eyes were fastened on her. She straightened the hand-lettered sign. It looked crude and, in this place, abrasive: IS THERE NO ROOM FOR JESUS IN JONESBORO EITHER?

"But the horses … " she began again.

The marshal couldn't bear the distressed look in the old lady's face. "You don't like following the horses, lady? Okay, you go in front of the horses, behind the baby motorcycle team."

Emmaline's smile illuminated her face. "Thank you. We don't mean to be a bother."

She hurried back to the truck. "Pull in behind those motorcycles, Fred." She poked her head out the window, "Hold on tight, children; we're going to move."

Fred's hay rack made a nice manger bed, Emmaline decided, watching through the back window. Little Brandy sat on a bale of hay, leaning over the manger where her battered doll nestled in the hay. Benjamin, dressed in his father's bathrobe, stood behind her, an earnest and youthful Joseph. Eddie had been persuaded to exchange his King Herod sword for a wise man's cookie tin gilded to look like a gift of gold. Anastasia glowed in angel gauze, her brown face cherubic, her hand already lifted to the crowds like a beauty queen in the Parade of Roses.

Eventually the unwieldy parade began to move, undulating like an uncoordinated centipede through the throngs of people lining Main Street.

"Just think, Miss Emmaline," Fred said cheerfully, "the governor is on the reviewing stand with the mayor. You are going to be real proud today!"

Unexpected horse play
At that moment the motorcycles slowed down to execute an intricate set of moving figure eights. Fred was forced to stop.

A terrified screech cut through the noise. Emmaline threw open the door and ran back to the float. Brandy and Benjamin were hysterical. The horses pulling Sam's Feed and Seed float had thrust their big heads around the two terrified children to snatch greedily from the manger every tuft of hay they could reach. Brandy, thinking they would eat her doll, beat against them with impotent fists.

"Sir! Sir!" Emmaline yelled. "Look what your horses are doing!"

The driver shrugged helplessly. "I can't stop 'em, ma'am, when they're so close. Tell your driver to pull ahead."

"Can't do it, Miss Emmaline," Fred called out. "I'd run over the midget motorcyclists." He climbed out of the truck and walked back. "Here now, stop that!" he said gruffly, pulling on the horses' bridles. The horses pulled and tugged, reluctant to leave their free meal. Spectators clapped, and he bowed.

"Hey, mister, the parade's going off without you," someone yelled.

"Jump in, Miss Emmaline."

"I can't leave the children, Fred. You drive, and I'll walk beside them."

And that's exactly what Emmaline did for the next mile.

Sometimes she pushed with all her might against the great strength of the hungry horses behind her. When Fred was able to get ahead of the horses, she comforted a sobbing Brandy, and whispered encouragement to Benjamin.

The mist turned to rain. The cardboard props began to droop. Angel wings sagged. Brandy clutched her battered doll, its arms flailing, its matted hair awry, its one eye staring reproachful. Emmaline's eyes began to water from the cold, and her nose started to drip. Holding the children as she did, she could not walk upright, and the awkward angle threw every stiffened and arthritic joint out of place.

"Fred!" she hissed. "Let's get out of here! Turn off at the next corner." But every cross street was blocked by spectators.

When they reached the reviewing stand, the horses were still rooting around the bare manger. The sign hung crookedly. Tears fell down Emmaline's wrinkled cheeks, in spite of her efforts to wipe them away. She saw Mayor Frederick Parker pointing at the float, laughing with the governor. At that terrible moment, the flash of a news photographer's camera caught them, capturing every dreadful detail with merciless accuracy.

Front page news
Monday morning, Emmaline lay in her bed and looked at that picture. They'd printed it in full color, five columns wide, on the front page of the paper. She looked dispassionately at her own ravaged, wrinkled face; saw Brandy's doll, tattered and naked; the mayor's pointing finger; dear Anastasia's dimpled grin and brown hand raised in papal benediction; the horses caught with teeth bared, lunging for the last wisp of hay. But, thank God, the crooked sign was still readable: IS THERE NO ROOM FOR JESUS IN JONESBORO EITHER?

Sipping hot lemon juice and honey for her terrible cold, Emmaline felt humiliated. She'd embarrassed the church family, let down her Sunday school children, given cause for rejoicing to the Enemy—and especially Freddie Parker.

The phone rang. The pastor's voice sang with excitement. "Seen the paper, Miss Emmaline?"

Emmaline groaned. "I know. I know. You want my resignation."

"Oh, you dear, foolish woman! Don't you know the whole town is talking about Jesus today? Isn't that exactly what we wanted? The wire services have picked up that picture, and tomorrow people all over the country will be asking themselves if they have room for Jesus!"

The next phone call was from Eddie.

"Miss Emmaline, we're famous!"

"Infamous, you mean," was Emmaline's tired reply.

"The guys at school saw us on TV last night. They think our Sunday school class is great. They all want to come next Sunday."

"That's great, Eddie. Now hang up."

Emmaline thought she couldn't bear another phone call. She wept, then dozed, and was awakened by the doorbell. Groggily she reached for a robe.

Brandy's mother stood there, waving the newspaper picture.

Emmaline's heart skipped a beat. "Brandy! Is she sick from being in the parade?"

Cynthia Walker shook her head. "No. Brandy's fine," she said. "But I'm not."

"Oh, my dear, what's wrong?"

"I saw this beautiful picture and realized how much my little girl loves Jesus, and how proud she was to stand up for him in that parade."

Emmaline thought she must be hallucinating. Maybe she had a fever. But no, Brandy's mother was really there in front of her, with mascara smudged, desperation in her eyes.

"I'm so tired of being the kind of person I am. Oh, Mrs. Crawford," she sobbed, "I haul Brandy off to Sunday school, and I pick her up. But I never set foot inside church. I haven't given God the time of day! And I feel just rotten."

Emmaline's heart sang. Bless Freddie Parker's devious heart! In spite of himself, Freddie had accomplished God's business!

"Please," Brandy's mother was saying, "do you have the time to help me? I want to make room in my heart for Jesus."

"Oh, my dear," Emmaline said, opening wide the door, "of course I have time. Please, come in!"

Condensed from Christmas, Volume 66, © 1996 Augsburg Publishing House. Used by permission.

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