Carol’s Column

Hark, the Jewish angel sings

“ARE there Jewish angels?” asked my nine-year-old daughter of the sea-urchin eyes and plum cheeks.

“Of course there are,” I replied. “Angels come in all shapes and sizes. You can get Jewish angels, black angels, Chinese angels, Turkish angels. If there were pink and green people, you’d get pink and green angels too.”

She nodded her head gravely.

“Why do you want to know?” I asked her gently. I sensed she had a problem.

“Well, we’re having a nativity concert at school and I’d love to be an angel but somebody said perhaps I shouldn’t because I was Jewish. She also said I shouldn’t sing carols. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Nicky, you go back and tell your friend that God loves all kinds of angels — the more the merrier.

“What’s more, carols are lovely — singing them isn’t going to harm you. Besides, Daddy and I think it’s a good thing to know about other religions.”

And so, our daughter became an angel.

The excitement was intense.

“I’ve got to have a white sheet, a cord and some tinsel,” she announced imperiously.

“No problem,” I’ve got lots of sheets.

“There are sheets and sheets.

“Mummy, angels don’t wear drip-dry fitted sheets. And I’m not going to be the only beige angel.”

“Do you think anyone will notice?” I muttered casually.

“Of course they will,” she said indignantly. “Mrs Watling said we had to be sparkling, white angels.”

It seemed none of my friends had white sheets either.

“Why don’t you buy some cotton and make an angel suit, it’ll be neater than a sheet, not quite so bulky,” suggested Betty.

Nicky wasn’t impressed. “Mrs Watling says we have to have a white sheet,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.

It was Marion who came to the rescue.

“I found one, I found one!” she cried triumphantly. It might have been the crown jewels so gratefully was it received.

Nicky took her angelship very seriously.

Throughout the house she sang carols — her voice sweet, high and loud. Very loud.

Too loud.

“Nicky,” said Jamie, our 12-year-old who is receiving Barmitzvah instruction from the Rabbi, “do you think that when the Rabbi comes for my lesson, you could perhaps stop singing carols. He’s beginning to twitch.”

At night, as my husband and I sat quietly in the lounge, savouring our moment together, we’d hear singing upstairs. The tune of ‘Away in the Manger’ intermingled with the melody of Jamie’s portion of the Torah.

Together yet independently, they’d practise for hours on end.

“It gives the house a cosmopolitan feel, doesn’t it?” I murmured to my spouse.

He wiggled his ears, a well-known sign of distress: “Cosmopolitan! If you don’t stop that racket, I’m leaving. This house is not big enough for me, you, Maria Callas and Mario Lanza upstairs.”

“They died ages ago,” I reminded him gently.

“Well, at least their neighbours have peace and quiet,” he muttered in a somewhat disgruntled tone.

Daily we received bulletins about the progress of the nativity play.

“Jesus lost his head today. It fell off and rolled under the potplant.”

“Goodness!” I was suitably shocked.

Or: “Alexia says she’s not wearing her halo on top of her hair, she’s going to wear it like a headband. It’s more fashionable. But Claire and I don’t think angels should be fashionable. What do you think, Mummy?”

“Well, sometimes you get fashionable angels. There are all kinds.”

Or: “Ross is the handsomest angel among the boys but his halo keeps slipping.”

On Tuesday, Nicky came home bubbling. “I’m a narrator. I’ve got to say words too!”

Happiness is a narrating angel.

Then came the evening of the carol concert.

We joined the other parents sitting on the soccer stands for the concert was being held under the stars.

It was chilly and the wooden benches were hard but there was a sense of expectancy.

And suddenly there were little angels everywhere.

Two by two they filed on to the stage, their halos sparkling, their candles glowing.

In the back row, a gap-toothed angel with pigtails saw her parents and waved boisterously while in the front a boy angel tripped and almost fell.

Joseph lost his head-covering and one of the three kings’ crowns wobbled precariously.

Beside me, Judy Reidy jumped up and down: “Look! My son the shepherd!” she shouted with great pride.

And then the Jewish, narrating angel delivered her words.

“Stop crying, you’ve put your candle out,” whispered my husband gruffly.

It didn’t matter that the heavenly chorus was a little out of tune here and there.

Or that the wind blew out all the candles and the little group stood in darkness for a while.

It was a perfect night — one to remember.

Later, when I kissed Nicky goodnight, she held me tightly.

“Do you think God minded a Jewish angel?” she asked sleepily.

“No, I think he rather enjoyed it,” I replied.

“So did I,” she said and shut her eyes.

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