Emmaline slapped her white wicker breakfast tray onto her bed with more vigor than she intended. Her cup of herbal tea sloshed onto her wheat toast. "If I've got to retire," she said, climbing back into bed, "I might as well try to enjoy it."

For forty-five years Emmaline had worked at the post office. Last month the postmaster had told her she had to retire. "I'm sorry, Miss Emmaline, but it's the law."

"Law or no law," she said, dipping her soggy toast into her soft-boiled egg, "a body needs to be needed."

She unrolled the morning newspaper and stared at the headline. "There, now! Just look at that!"

Her trembling finger traced the words:

Emmaline permitted herself a feminine snort. The same old Freddie Parker. Acting just like he did when he was a kid and the terror of East Ninth Street. He doesn't care a hoot about religious liberty. He's running for re-election.

"I wish somebody would put Freddie Parker in his place," she said to her reflection in the bathroom mirror, "and put Jesus back where he belongs!"

"Well, Emmaline," her reflection asked, "why don't you do something about it? Go see the mayor."

"You remember what a rotten kid Mayor Frederick Parker was when he lived next door to us. I might lose my postal pension. And if I starve, you starve."

"Emmaline Effingham Crawford: you know very well you won't lose your pension for being brave enough to stand up to the mayor."

"I know," Emmaline answered herself brokenly, "I need to be brave. All right, I'll try it."

Emmaline dressed quickly, then hurried to catch the bus that went to city hall. The mayor's secretary politely explained he was in conference. Could her business wait until January?

"Oh, no. I need to ask him to let them put up the Christmas creche in the park."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Crawford. The mayor's mind is quite made up about the Christmas scene."

That afternoon, to Emmaline's surprise, the mayor phoned. "Of course I remember you, Miss Emmaline. I'm sorry I was busy when you stopped by."

"Freddie?Mr. Mayor?please let them put the Christmas creche up. You can't have Christmas without Christ."

"Miss Emmaline, there is no room for displays of Jesus on public property in Jonesboro."

After he hung up, his words echoed in Emmaline's mind: "No room for Jesus in Jonesboro."

On Sunday morning those words were still on her mind when she gathered her Sunday school class of eight- and nine-year-olds around her. "There was no room for Jesus in the inn at Bethlehem," she said sadly. "And now, in our very own town, there is no room for Jesus. What shall we do about it?"

"Let's sue the mayor," Eddie said.

Emmaline hugged him. "That's an idea. Keep thinking."

"The parade," Brandy said softly, unexpectedly. "We could be in the Christmas parade."

"A parade, Brandy?"

"The Christmas parade is next Sunday afternoon. We could have a float with the manger scene on it."

"Neat-o!" the children chorused.

"I get dibs on being a wise man," said Charlie.

"I'll be King Herod with the sword," said Eddy.

Anastasia said softly, "I'll be an angel."

"Children," Emmaline said, "let's not get carried away. Where will we get a float? A truck to pull it? Costumes? Can we get ready in a week?"

The children dismissed such questions. Each child knew someone who might help.

"All right, if the pastor says it's all right, we'll try it."

Unfortunately, the pastor thought it was a great idea, so Emmaline was committed in spite of herself.