We wore bathrobes stitched by my mother’s own hand, terry cloth rough against our skin in navy blue and dark green. A white belt around the middle. We put towels on our heads, makeshift coverings with frayed edges. Then my brother and I marched both solemn and delighted into the living room. He Joseph and I Mary.
We’d take our places in front of a manger, usually a toy crib where one of my baby dolls played the starring role. No matter that this doll was a girl with long eyelashes and a bald plastic head. She would do. Our dog, an old but enthusiastic dachshund who looked a bit like a happy sausage, would play the role of livestock.
My Dad would clear his throat and begin to read from Luke. “And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them….” (2:8).
Every Christmas Eve we did this by candlelight until the teenage years came and we rolled our eyes and wanted only to eat seconds of dessert. In my grown-up years I have never done anything like it either.
But I think now, in the middle of the hustle and the busyness, the to-do lists and the calendar with its full boxes, that we got it right back then. That we knew so much more than I do now. Because what I remember from those times, more than anything else, is the feeling of being loved. The wonder of realizing Jesus came for me.
For me in the tattered robe with the towel slipping off her head. For me who sometimes threw things at her brother and pulled the poor dog’s ears and ate up the last piece of chocolate fudge. He came for me anyway. And all He wanted in return was for me to love Him back.
{Continue reading this post over at (in)courage…}
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