December 6, 2024
Yesterday evening my husband and I pulled our Christmas decorations from our storage room. To our dismay, when we unwrapped our beloved hand-carved-from-olive-wood-in-Jerusalem Nativity creche, we discovered that, likely due to the record amounts of rain this spring and summer, every piece in the Nativity was covered with a dusty, greenish, mold. The creche had been a gift from my dad about 20 years ago when he travelled to the Holy Land for work, and as we went to work cleaning it up, I found myself near tears.
It's just a thing, I kept telling myself, it's just stuff. Clearly, a clean Nativity set was nothing compared to a clean bill of health when someone is facing an illness, or any other of the very serious things that happen in life. I felt embarrassed at being so upset.
It's just stuff. But it is also more than stuff. Over the 20 years we've had the creche, taking it out each year has been a special part of the season for me. A feeling of being surrounded by the wonder of the story and connected to something bigger. I've pictured my dad taking time from his work to walk to the market near his hotel in Jerusalem, and carefully pick out four Nativity sets, each a little different: one for me, one for my sister, one for my brother, and one for he and my mom. I've imagined the artist who carved them. The trees they came from. I've pictured my dad trying to carry these four Nativity sets home on the plane, too fragile to leave to in checked luggage. I've imagined the hundreds of people who did the same, and imagined all the Nativities carved from the same grove of olive trees, still connected through time and space each Christmas when they are set out in their various new geographies.
Our stuff is just stuff. Nothing compared to love, health, care, hope, and all other gifts of Spirit. And sometimes stuff is so closely tied to memories or emotions that it is difficult to separate the things from the feelings. I suppose this is why traditions matter to us so much. They can ground and root us, tying us physically to bigger spiritual things. And this is the season for both traditions and bigger spiritual things. As I cleaned our Nativity set last night, gently scrubbing Mary's face, the shepherd's crook, and the palm tree carved into the side of the stable with a soft toothbursh, I also recognized that traditions and connection feel especially meaningful this year, when the world itself feels unstable and uncertain. I am looking toward Jesus the Morning Star for hope and guidance this this year more than ever.
The good news is our Nativity set is mostly saved now. The pieces are a little bit worse for the wear, but the actual Holy Family probably was too, that first Christmas. Aren't we all, from time to time. My prayer for you this week is for memories, emotions, and connections to things and people in your life to bring you hope, peace, and joy, even through the muck and mold the world can throw at us sometimes. My prayer is for each of us to remember that muck can be cleaned; love remains. And if love can carry four creches through three international airports, it can certainly carry you through anything, too.