Little Donkey

by Allan Miller

At the school’s harvest festival concert, my son, along with his P1 classmates, sang a song about turnips. I wasn’t there to see it — not because I’m an international businessman who was beset by a series of misadventures, arriving seconds after my child’s big moment— but because Duncan would only sing if I wasn’t in the audience.

He hates being the centre of attention. The performance was a big deal for him. I think he knew it was also a big deal for me, and that was just too much pressure. Afterwards, I was told he’d done brilliantly well. I was extremely proud, but I couldn’t help feeling sad that I’d not been there to see him.

A few months later, he was performing in the school nativity. Once again, Duncan asked me not to come. I couldn’t bear the thought of not watching him this time, so I decided to go — in disguise. I wore old clothes, a grey wig, and a big fake beard. I thought that if I went along at the last minute, and hid at the back of the hall, my grandfather costume wouldn’t attract too much attention. And I was right, at least for the majority of the play.

But when my little shepherd walked on stage and delivered his line to the room, I failed to suppress a whoop of parental pride.

Some parents noticed me lurking at the back. I began to think that disguising myself as an unknown old man in order to attend a primary school show might have been a bad idea. I tried to slink into the shadows, which probably made things worse as a few moments later I was tapped on the shoulder by the caretaker, who gestured for me to follow him out of the hall.

I told him I just wanted to watch the children. I immediately realised this made me sound even more suspicious, so then I whispered that I was in disguise, hoping that would put an end to the matter.

The caretaker grabbed my arm. I pushed him away. Things were beginning to get heated. Mary and Joseph had enough on their plate, what with trying to find last minute lodgings in Bethlehem, without having the audiences shushing to contend with. I was concerned they were becoming a bit of a distraction from the birth of the baby Jesus, so I shushed them back.

The headmistress approached me. As I was about the confide who I was, the hall lights came on. The entire audience, Mary, Joseph, Archangel Gabriel, shepherds, sheep, and the innkeeper, all stopped what they were doing and stared.

‘Please remain seated,’ I told them. ‘And peace be upon you. I only wish to see my son.’ I was about to say his name, but when I looked up at my darling little shepherd boy, I couldn’t reveal my true identity. I decided there was only one sensible course of action. Before I could tell them I was an undercover cop, one of the three wise men shouted from the stage, ‘I know who that is!’

I braced myself for Duncan’s reaction.

‘It’s Jesus’s dad!’

The children gasped whilst their parents murmured with disapproval. Several audience members, having decided enough was enough, advanced towards me, but the Angel Gabriel jumped down from the stage, and took me by the hand. The sea of angry parents parted as I was led to the stable and brought before the infant Christ.

The children looked at me expectantly. Perhaps they were waiting for me to make a divine proclamation or perform some sort of miracle. I was hoping for one myself. I bent over the crib, picked up the plastic doll, and held him aloft.

‘My son,’ I declared. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

The children squealed with delight, as outrage burst from the audience. I stole a sideways glance towards Duncan and winked.

‘I’m proud of you all,’ I continued, ‘and to thank you for everything you’ve done, today will forever be known as Christmas Day!’

Then I turned to the shell-shocked music teacher at the piano and cried, ‘Hit it!’

I’m not sure a rousing rendition of “Little Donkey” was what anyone was expecting from the Almighty, but the children joined in enthusiastically.

Fortunately, some of the parents came to the conclusion that they were witnessing a modern reworking of the nativity. A few of them tentatively sang along, and eventually there was a smattering of applause. I must admit, when the cast lined up and held hands, I felt a bit awkward taking centre stage between Mary and Joseph.

Whilst the children were still taking their final bows, I bolted for the back door.

As I was fleeing, the Angel Gabriel told the other children that I’d gone back to heaven.

I just had time to race home, get changed, and return to collect my son.

Miraculously, no one recognised me. Furious parents were too busy complaining to the headmistress to put two and two together.

Later that evening, whilst reflecting on how I was lucky not to have been crucified, I realised I’d taken something in my haste to escape the school hall. My son tugged at my sleeve and pointed to the corner of the room.

‘Dad, what’s the baby Jesus doing in our house?’

*

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from Diceroll Press!