An Angel Among the Angels: A Christmas Pageant Memory

There are moments in a parent’s life that live forever in the heart—not because they are perfect, but because they are honest, tender, and filled with grace.

As December arrives and the season invites reflection, I find myself returning to a Christmas memory that holds both deep joy and quiet vulnerability: the year my daughter Lara, who had special needs, walked into our church sanctuary as an angel in the Christmas pageant.

That year, Lara participated in our church’s annual pageant, dressed in a white robe trimmed with gold, a small halo resting gently on her head. She walked down the aisle beside her sister and her sister’s friend. Watching her, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride—one of those moments a parent tucks away, knowing it will never fade.

And yet, as was so often true in Lara’s life, my heart held more than one emotion at once. Alongside the pride was anxiety. I worried about how others might respond, whether she might have a seizure or an episode on stage. I worried about her sister, too—about possible stares, whispered judgments, or moments that might cause her pain or embarrassment.

The woman directing the pageant spoke to Lara as she did to all the children, gently offering instructions: “Stand still, look this way, move over just a bit.” Lara didn’t comply. She didn’t stand still or follow along. Instead, she stood with that familiar expression—part confusion, part bliss—an expression only a mother truly knows. In that moment, my heart swelled.

She looked radiant. Somehow, miraculously, her halo stayed on the entire time. As she walked down the aisle, safely nestled between her sister and her sister’s friend, I was overcome with gratitude.

What stays with me most is not simply that Lara was included, but how fully she was embraced. Our church community did not flinch at her differences or try to manage them away. She was seen. She was welcomed. She was loved exactly as she was. In that moment, I knew she belonged—not only to me, but to something larger, something holy.

Looking back now, especially in the wake of loss and ongoing grief, I realize that Lara wasn’t just dressed as an angel that day—she was one. She carried a presence that was pure, unfiltered, and deeply human. Her life, like so many lives shaped by vulnerability and difference, taught me that holiness often arrives quietly, without polish or perfection.

This memory reminds me that even in uncertainty and fear, there is room for grace. That love expands when we make space for one another as we are. And that faith—at its truest—calls us not toward sameness, but toward compassion, belonging, and hope. In remembering Lara this season, I am reminded that angels still walk among us, often in the most unexpected forms.