The nativity scene was my sainted grandmother’s. It was only 9 inches long, 6 inches high, four inches wide and made out of cheap plastic, but it held court under every Christmas tree in my grandparents home that I can remember.
As a little girl, I would lie on my stomach under the colorful winking lights of the tree, gently touching the tiny figures glued to the stable floor and being fascinated about the Christmas story. Imagining how the parents felt with their newborn lying in the scratchy straw and wondering how they kept from freezing to death, I would make up stories about how I would give them a blanket, or food, or pay for their hotel, or bring them home with me.
Years later, it ended up in my possession. I put it under our tree each year, soon to be hidden by the many packages and holiday wrappings, and forgotten. Just like those Christmases long ago were.
Last year, my son sat on it and it exploded into a million pieces. He was so upset that he had broken the ‘family heirloom’ that I almost laughed.
Almost.
I assured him that is wasn’t worth anything and not to worry about it. But the next morning I found it back under the tree all in one piece. When I asked why he had stayed up half the night painstakingly gluing it back together when we had my expensive ceramic set to showcase. To my surprise, he shared with me how, as a little boy, he used to lie under the lights of the tree and make up stories about the family in the manger.
This year it is under the tree again and everytime I look at it, I think of Christmas at my grandmother’s and how proud she would be of her great grandson staying up all night to redeem something that holds nothing more than sentimental value.
Makes me kinda proud too.
