I love this Season.
The festive colors and glittering decor; the annual traditions (like looking at Christmas lights in the expensive neighborhoods) stir childhood memories.
[I also love the break from school (we slept until 8:20 Sunday morning and even later on Monday), lazy mornings, watching Christmas movies in our pajamas and my kids shaking their presents under the tree. (Um, if they guess correctly, it’s okay to lie, right??)]
The world celebrates a day.
We celebrate a birth.
I love Nativity scenes. The silent animals worshiping. The flowing gowns of humble servants on bended knee. The perfection of the scene: clean, crisp, every piece perfectly groomed.
(the Nativity I got for my birthday -it took us much longer than I want to admit, putting it (puzzle) together!)
I used to merely decorate with my collection of Nativity sets. I would arrange the Wise Men, adjust the Angel, ask little hands to stay away from the fragile Holy family.
Last year, Baby Jesus lost a thumb and half a finger. I’m pretty sure I yelled at the careless hands. What an oxymoron: I want them to know Him. I want them to honor Him with their attention during this season that forgets His birth, but I make Him untouchable.
When I am old, I want to pick up this piece from my Nativity and remember why Jesus only has four fingers and a broken thumb.
Santa delivered a child’s version the year of my baby’s first Christmas. I don’t tuck it away in boxes destined for storage eleven months of the year. Small fingers carry pieces to the bath, tuck an angel away in a purse and at The Advent, we hunt down and gather them all together again.
I want my children to exchange the word Christmas, not with gifts, but with Jesus. His Name. I want them to know that Christmas is a birthday party for Jesus. And that’s why we celebrate.
Just this week, my toddler decided, “Jesus, needs her a blanket.”
[I didn’t argue gender. I have a three year old. I lose those arguments].
She carefully crafted one from pink Play Do.