It felt like a God moment. In spite of everything…

by Pringle Franklin

Simply by oversight, we didn’t unpack our beloved family crêche from its tissue paper until after attending the Christmas Eve service last night at St. Philip’s. Sam and the boys started to unwrap the pieces while I tried to play “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” on the piano. I suspect it was my botched chords and choppy rhythm which drove our first-born son from the room in distress. The middle son was not far behind. I should have ceased banging out my garbled little tune. But I was fixated on battling the sheet music.

Luckily, the youngest boy, unflappable in that thank-heavens-someone-in-this-family-is-relaxed way of third children, hung in there. Baker and his father arranged the figures around the rustic wooden lean-to without making a single wise crack about my stumbles on the keyboard. I knew better than to start singing.

My once-lovely soprano voice peaked in about seventh grade. While I am not above fooling around on the piano, I have been informed that my off-pitch singing could shred the joy of any holiday tradition. No way did I want to do that. The plaster of Paris figurines date back to my husband’s childhood. Sam’s parents purchased the set in a snow-covered, tier-timbered German village. Over the years, Mary, Joseph, and the rest of the cast have been handled by several generations of curious and energetic Franklin children. And it shows.

One of the camels can barely stand, having three legs; a turbaned wise man nearly lost his head, but superglue kept it in place, more or less. Most of the wooly sheep have strayed from the fold. None of the shepherds has stuck around, yet somehow, a fourth Wise Man showed up. These days the only shepherd (the extra King) is grossly overdressed for guarding the flocks.

Despite the wear-and-tear, or possibly because of it, we take nostalgic pleasure in rediscovering these familiar nativity characters every season. Generally we set up the crêche at the beginning of Advent. But somehow, this year, we had neglected to unpack the cardboard box. It sat on the floor, overlooked, in a corner of the dining room. I remembered it only after seeing a live Nativity Scene outside of our church. We generally display our manger set on top of a bulky linen press. Last night, since it was around 9:45 p.m. and Santa still needed to visit, I chose a table on the opposite side of the dining room because it had less clutter. I was aiming for a quick job.

This formal room is usually quiet, so it doubles as my spot for morning prayer. The wood-paneled chamber is somber and dark, cast into shadows by a condominium building on our east. Around 8 a.m., for a few moments daily, the sun strikes the western wall and brightens a small swath of the cave before moving on into the front hall. I don’t usually even notice this short-lived display of penetrating sunshine. This morning, I began my prayer time in dim, gray light. When I opened my eyes about 45 minutes later, a yellow spotlight was shining right on the Baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary.

To my surprise, the shabby figures glowed and seemingly sprang to life. God didn’t seem to mind that we had barely pulled it together. Welcome Christmas.

For unto us a child is born; for unto us, a son is given.