The Christmas bottle

I know some of you (Randy, Rich, probably Ted) have tuned in thinking, “Wow, a story about getting plastered at Christmas!”   Much as I hate to disappoint you, it isn’t that sort of story.  And no one even got pounded (fortunately.)

It’s a Christmas Eve many years ago.  We’re sitting in the balcony, nearing the end of the Christmas service.  Bill is holding and feeding our older daughter, who’s clutching her bottle.  Suddenly, she jettisons the bottle.  Bill attempts to catch it but his hand hits it instead, putting it into orbit.

A Matrix moment ensues.  The bottle goes into a slow motion end-over-end spin, freewheeling past the Golds, an older couple sitting in front of us.  Time lengthens. The bottle’s arch continues over the edge of the balcony, out of sight towards the pews below.  We look at each other and cringe, waiting for a cry as the bottle hits someone sitting below.

We hear only the slam of the (plastic) bottle hitting the floor and rolling.  As the service ends, we sheepishly enter the church with rueful smiles on our faces.   The people nearest the falling bottle tell us of their amazement and relief that no one was hit.  We take the bottle from them and make our way home, thankful for our one small Christmas miracle.