Last Year.

Simon and his son, Vic, stood in front of the Nativity scene adorning the entrance of Mercy Hospital. Vic, a precocious eleven-year-old, tugged at his father’s woolen coat sleeve. He asked, “Why’s there a cow? It’s supposed to be a camel or an ass.” When he said ‘ass,’ he giggled at the double meaning.

“I guess they set out a cow because it’s Iowa,” said Simon, avoiding the vagaries of biblical controversy. “Joseph and Mary, in red and blue, kneeling before the manger, where the baby Jesus is, on the hay, like the story goes,” he continued, pointing with his patchwork flat cap.

“I learned that in Bible School, at Zion,” replied Vic, who had been enrolled in the Lutheran summer program by his Quaker parents as an ecumenical move. Plus, it gave the parents more time to tend the June kitchen garden. “Dad, remember our favorite Christmas carol:

‘We Three Kings from Orient are’?”

“Yup, a classic,” replied Simon.

“I gotta question. Where’s Orient-Are? Was ‘Are’ a country?”

Simon, used to Vic’s inquisitions, still had to chuckle at this one. “‘Are’s’ not a country; it’s a verb. The carol says the kings are from the Orient—the Middle East—and they are bearing gifts.”

“Funny, funny. I’m a dumb bunny.” Vic let go a belly laugh. “Still, not so dumb as to miss king No.3. There’s only two here. What about BLM?”

Simon did a head count. “Yes. One’s missing—Balthazar. He’s Black.” He grabbed his son’s near hand. “Let’s keep on our walk, see if Zion Lutheran has all three.” The Christmas season had settled in, along with the first good snow. Simon and Vic were taking the long way to the Horace Mann School yard, where they were intent on making a pattern of snow angels, after they had checked out neighborhood decorations around Church Street. Headed toward Zion, they watched the wet snow melt into the brick walls of the old Czech cottages, bringing out their cinnamon color. When they got to Zion Lutheran, they read its announcement for the Christmas Eve service, including one in German. But there was no Nativity; only a string of unlit lights on a tall white pine. Beside the tree a yard sign was planted: ‘Black Lives Matter.’ Still, no Black Magi.

The snow came down harder, as they cut through the parking lot, with Vic practicing his pratfalls on the ice. Across the alley, in the whitening parish grass of St. Wenceslaus, a Nativity was being assembled, on a wood slat foundation. Their modest Nativity did have a camel and an ‘ass,’ as Vic happily noted, but no human figures were up, at least not yet. They paraded around the Parish Rosary Walk, built by Eagle Scouts a few years before. In contrast to the ongoing preparation for the Nativity, the concrete garden wall of the Rosary Walk had crumbled, pushing against the statue of the Holy Mother. They left parish grounds for the school playing fields, Vic ready to make angels and hurl snowballs at the sun. The snow scattered in a glitter of light, twinkling with the promise of the season. But Simon was in a pensive mood, feeling that things seemed a bit out of harmony, for Christmas time. Vic ran over to some other eleven-year-olds he knew. Right away, they formed a human star-shape in the snow and moved their ‘wings’ back and forth. Simon left them in laughter and went back to Mercy Hospital.

Simon entered the spacious, fluorescent lobby of the hospital and immediately saw a building directory, which he approached, then stopped to read. He wanted to speak to someone about the Nativity, but the specific department for that seemed non-obvious. While he knew staff in Ambulance Services, Emergency Care, and Billing Services, as a result of his accident at the cabin, they were not relevant for the task at hand. Continuing to scan the list, he saw Pastoral Care, Family Counseling, and Tour Scheduling, all of which resonated but weren’t right either. Finally, he asked the receptionist, a lady with comforting cheeks, if he could speak to someone about the Nativity. She, cheerily, said, “Ah, yes. Follow me,” and led him to a first-floor office that opened out to the courtyard where the Nativity stood. She turned the door handle, popped in her silver-gray bun, and announced: “Mr. Donegal, a gentleman wishes to speak to you.” With that, she left, her low-heel clicks fading down the hall.

“Come in, please,” said Mr. Donegal, rising in hopes of a handshake. “How may I help you?” Simon stayed near the doorway, but removed his cap.

“Thanks. My name’s Simon Arrow. I was explaining the Nativity to my young son and some questions came up about the Wise Men. These displays can be, don’t you think, useful ways of learning about our cultural history?”

“Just so.” Mr. Donegal touched his fingertips together in a tent-shape. “The Three Kings, who followed the Star in the East, coming to bless the baby Jesus with gifts.”

“Yes. But… as you can see through your window, there are only two kings. Vic wondered where the third one was.”

Mr. Donegal smoothed back his well-combed widow’s peak. “You see, Mr. Arrow, these two are merely symbolic figures; they represent the three.”

Simon took his time, lifting his eyes from his snow-melted shoes. “Mr. Donegal, the one that’s missing is Balthazar. He was Black, unlike the other two.”

Mr. Donegal cast his gaze at a cross above Simon’s head, as if seeking a revelation. “I had not considered that. We will take it up in the Christmas Committee and arrive at the proper remedy for this theologically sensitive issue of the third king.”

Simon felt cautiously optimistic but was unsure about how to couch his encouragement. Silently, he counted 1-2-3, three times, to bring himself luck. “Well, at the level of narrative, it makes the story complete to have all three kings since they brought three different gifts—gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Balthazar, whom I learned was the king of Ethiopia, brought myrrh.”

“Myrrh?” asked Mr. Donegal.

“Myrrh. The holy ointment. In the Bible.”

“Yes, of course.”

Simon decided to go on. “More importantly, at the spiritual level, the presence of Balthazar would underline the Christmas message—Peace on Earth and Good Will to All.” Mr. Donegal stared at Simon oddly. Then he puffed out his lips in a way that suggested Simon should not wade so deep into spiritual waters. Nevertheless, his farewell was cordial.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Arrow. This will be attended to.” As he spoke, he gestured with his right palm, up and out, toward the door. Simon left the office with a fragile sense of accomplishment, worried they might not, in fact, add the third king.

This Year.

Faithfully, next Christmas rolled around. This year, Simon and Vic had gone to a nighttime drive-thru Nativity at Shueyville Methodist Church, out in the country. Its multiple stations, boom box narration of the Christmas story, and tethered live animals made for an arresting site. Vic was especially pleased to see a “real honking donkey,” as he put it. All this was possible from the comfort of their heated car. A sign, advertising the event, proclaimed that last year ‘1,008 vehicles visited in three nights.’ It was the same this year, an exciting, although noisy, evening. And it was hard to see the costumed human figures, who represented the Wise Men or the Shepherds, not easily discerned looming in the shadows.

They discussed the pros and cons of the drive-thru event, while walking toward St. Wenceslaus Church, in reverse order from last year’s neighborhood Nativity tour. “Dad, you think St. Wences will have Balthazar this year?”

“I hope so,” replied Simon.

“Why?” asked Vic, in the blunt way twelve-year-olds ask adults questions.

“Here goes,” answered Simon. “One Christmas eve, in Aunt Myrtle’s attic, my cousin Connie stumbled over a used cardboard box labelled ‘Wise Men,’ in red crayon. It contained a dozen Wise Men statues, from different holiday sets but all Black. She took them downstairs and arranged them in the Nativity scene under the tree. Aunt Myrtle removed them and smacked Connie across the palms of her hands, with a ruler. “Never put him out!” she said.

“I bet that ruler smack hurt,” interrupted Vic.

Simon went on. “After that, Connie always put him out, and I have, too.”

Vic shouted, signaling something ahead, on the parish grounds. “Look, Balthazar’s in their Nativity this year! See him in the red and blue, standing behind Mary.”

“Good eye,” Simon responded. They stood quietly admiring the fine display, which indeed included all the Wise Men.

Unable to stay quiet, Vic exclaimed. “There’s a camel, too. Wonder what we will find at Mercy?” They immediately set out for that heraldic destination. Vic continued. “Wish we had snow. I hope they have all the kings, plus all the gifts. I want to see Balthazar and his myrrh. What is myrrh, Dad? Can we buy some at the co-op?"