Away In A Manger

"Away in a manger, no crib for his bed..."

This song is stuck in my head. I don't recall when exactly I learned this tune, but I think I know where. When I was six years old, my family attended a small Baptist church in an equally small town. The children gathered in an upstairs room, for Sunday School, all ages together. There were 10 of us on a good day. We sat in little wooden chairs painted in soft, pastel blues & yellows. Mrs. Noel was our teacher. She also played the piano. Quite possibly, she is the one who taught me the song.

My Sunday School teacher was a lovely lady. I loved her bleached-blond bouffant hair & the tiny, white pearls she wore every Sunday. In my eyes she was beautiful. I was equally impressed with her soprano voice. I wished to be just like her.

After hushing the children, Mrs. Noel would turn towards the piano. Sitting poised upon her swivel stool, she'd majestically sweep her arms out and upward. That was our cue. Feet shuffled, chairs banged, as we sprung to our feet. As quick as lightening, her long fingers pounced upon the ivory keys. Her lovely voice rang out as the piano resounded in a rousing, yet melodic symphony. I was sure we were floating up to heaven as the vibrations rocked the floorboards tickling my feet. We Hallelujahed, sang Deep & Wide. We Burned with Oil, held out our Little Lights as they Shined & never hid them Under the Bushel.

At Christmas, the songs changed. When we sang Away in a Manger, the room became quieter. Even Charles, Mrs. Noel's son stopped poking and pinching. We stood quietly. My eyes were misty as I imagined no crib for his bed, the little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay. I was not quite sure what the cows did when they were lowing, and I was amazed that there was no crying from this baby. But how could he be looking down from the sky at my cradle? I was lost in imagination.

I still get lost in the song. It's different now. I think about Mary, sitting in a stable amongst the animals. The odor of manure, mixed with fresh hay fills her nostrils. She lays her newborn baby into an eating trough to sleep. This isn't any baby. It is the son of God. Mary, a teenage girl, sits pondering what has happened. God has spoken to her about this child, conceived while she was a virgin. Did she ever imagine he'd be born in a barn? Did she wonder if he would be a carpenter like Joseph?

I don't know what happened to Mrs. Noel, the Sunday School teacher who I aspired to be like. I am not an accomplished pianist, nor can I sing the notes she did. But I hope I never tire, or lose the wonderment of Christmas or the songs about the birth of Jesus. It is my desire carry her same enthusiasm. I hope to spark the imaginations of others, especially children, so that they too are intrigued and interested in this baby's birth, far away in a manger.