Sarah Middleton My parents were married in 1955. They were full-time college students, surviving on part-time jobs and the GI bill. There was little in the way of a dowery (a few small things Mom had made), and if they hadn’t been living in married student housing, they wouldn’t have had any furniture either. There was no money left over, but Christmas was coming and, even if they didn’t have a Christmas Tree or a fancy meal, Mom believed they needed a Nativity. She looked and looked but couldn’t find even a small set they could afford. Through the miracle of grace called “Friendship”, and a bit of bartering, she was able to “purchase” the greenware, glaze and kiln time for a full ceramic set. Armed with their creativity and enthusiasm (and I suspect a bit of expert friendship-help) they went to work, creating their first Nativity set. It was done in time for Christmas and was proudly displayed in a place of prominence that year and every year thereafter.
Every year, after Christmas (maybe several months after) it would be gently packed away and carefully stored. And every year, the day after Thanksgiving (or a little sooner), it would be gently unpacked and reverently displayed.
Every year, after Christmas (maybe several months after) it would be gently packed away and carefully stored. And every year, the day after Thanksgiving (or a little sooner), it would be gently unpacked and reverently displayed.
Through the years, they added other rituals to their celebration of Christmas. After a few years a Christmas tree was added and from then on they nearly always had one up, adding a new, special ornament each year (even the year it was a tree I drew that was posted on the wall). Mom loved burning an Advent candle every year and she and I would watch it carefully to be sure to blow it out at the right time. Special foods were added. Lion and lamb decorations joined in. Some years we had an Advent calendar. Events like watching Christmas movies on TV, making popcorn balls and wassail and spending time with friends were all highlights. And more nativity sets joined the crowd, but they never held a place of honor quite like that first one.
My earliest memories of Christmas include that nativity. I remember Mom (and sometimes Dad) setting it up and Mom putting it away. Occasionally it stayed up all year. Over the years, an ear was broken and glued back on, an angel disappeared then reappeared; a horn broke off and wouldn’t stay with glue so it was taped inside the bull, another ear chipped. But always, it was there.
When Mom decided I was old enough (which was pretty young, maybe 3-4), I began to “help” her (which is probably how horns and ears chipped and broke!). Each piece that came out of the box was gently unwrapped, and its story was told. Not the story about how they couldn’t afford a set and made this one – that would come later – but the story each piece represented. If a donkey came out she (and later we) would tell the story of the donkey that carried Mary all the way to Bethlehem. The story of the shepherds and sheep is obvious as is the one about the Wise Men. But she also told the story of the camels that carried the Wise Men and Mary, who was young and chosen, and Joseph, who was strong and trying to be brave. As the manger with the baby came from the box, the story of Jesus was told. I remember occasionally asking for some of the stories to be repeated throughout the season (probably more than I remember), and Mom always obliged.
As I got older, we didn’t always take the time to tell the stories, and sometimes only one of us unpacked the Nativity, but, at least for myself, I always paused just a little with the unwrapping of each piece, remembering.
My parents passed away many years ago and now I have the set. My husband and I have many Nativity sets. Some are small, some large, some from other countries. Some we purchased and some were gifts. Some were made by his parents. We treasure them all. Each has something unique that none of the others can match. I would be hard pressed to name a favorite. But, for many years, the day after Thanksgiving, I would gently unpack and reverently display Mom and Dad’s set. And every year, after Christmas (as far into January as I could push it), I would gently pack it away and carefully store it.
My parents passed away many years ago and now I have the set. My husband and I have many Nativity sets. Some are small, some large, some from other countries. Some we purchased and some were gifts. Some were made by his parents. We treasure them all. Each has something unique that none of the others can match. I would be hard pressed to name a favorite. But, for many years, the day after Thanksgiving, I would gently unpack and reverently display Mom and Dad’s set. And every year, after Christmas (as far into January as I could push it), I would gently pack it away and carefully store it.
Until last year. Last year we found a place where it could be displayed all year. And so last year it was gently unpacked and reverently displayed to stay. And each time I walk by it, or sit next to it, or dust around it, I remember.
I remember Mom and Dad. I remember Christmas and making ornaments and decorating trees and pumpkin pie. I remember Mom’s stories. And I remember what I did not understand then: the Journey to the Christ Child does not start on the day after Thanksgiving or end in January; it is not just for Mary and Joseph, the shepherds and the Wise Men; it is not packed away in a box to await the telling of the stories once again next year. The journey should be a lifelong adventure. He beckons each of us to journey to Him, and to journey with Him. He is in the stable, but He has also journeyed beyond the stable and the empty tomb. He wants to journey to our hearts, if invited.
You may ask, is there something magical about that almost 70-year-old Nativity that demands reverence and holds so many memories? The answer is simple: No. It is nothing more than clay and water, shaped and fired, and decorated with a slightly blue-green glaze. But they who used sacrifice and skill to make it were also skilled teachers. The “magic” is in the memories made while lessons were taught - unknown to me until years later.
Thanks, Mom and Dad!
I remember Mom and Dad. I remember Christmas and making ornaments and decorating trees and pumpkin pie. I remember Mom’s stories. And I remember what I did not understand then: the Journey to the Christ Child does not start on the day after Thanksgiving or end in January; it is not just for Mary and Joseph, the shepherds and the Wise Men; it is not packed away in a box to await the telling of the stories once again next year. The journey should be a lifelong adventure. He beckons each of us to journey to Him, and to journey with Him. He is in the stable, but He has also journeyed beyond the stable and the empty tomb. He wants to journey to our hearts, if invited.
You may ask, is there something magical about that almost 70-year-old Nativity that demands reverence and holds so many memories? The answer is simple: No. It is nothing more than clay and water, shaped and fired, and decorated with a slightly blue-green glaze. But they who used sacrifice and skill to make it were also skilled teachers. The “magic” is in the memories made while lessons were taught - unknown to me until years later.
Thanks, Mom and Dad!
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