by Laura Holt
Christmas is loaded with traditions. Traditional traditions, yes, but most families also have their share of odd or uncommon ones. Maybe you have a family holiday movie-thon. Maybe you decorate the tree with your siblings. Maybe you even dress up as Santa and wave at people from your rooftop as a way to get into the spirit.
Whatever the tradition is, I’ll bet it makes you smile. That’s the thing about traditions, they have this habit of being especially heartwarming, no matter where they fall on the common to out-there scale.
My family has a few of the more ‘normal’ traditions. Decorating our tree together, inviting friends over to chit-chat and eat Christmas cookies, and attending Mass on Christmas Eve are all things we celebrate traditionally. And it’s from that last one, going to Mass, that our special tradition was born.
Four years old. That’s the first Christmas service I can recall. My twin sister Erin and I were all dolled up in green Christmas dresses, our hair brushed out nice and feet strapped into uncomfortable shoes that squeaked. As we slid into a pew with our parents, the whole church seemed so colorful and shimmery. It felt to me much more like a party than Mass, which normally did not interest my little mind. There was this buzzing excitement in the air.
The Mass was the same as usual except for a Christmas carol or two thrown in. The similarities ended when the priest began his homily. He asked us kids to sit with him, way up in front.
This priest was just visiting our parish and had brought a ‘surprise’ for us tykes. We all gathered around him, and he told us the Christmas story. I hung way back with my sister, though. We were shy around all the older kids.
When his story wrapped up, Father stood, smiling, and revealed his big surprise — a bowl filled with candy. I remember one little girl literally yelling as she launched herself at it. Through all the squeals and cries of the mad rush forward, kids pushing each other aside to get some, I was timid and confused. Absolutely everybody was watching, some of them laughing, and it made me shy.
When I finally got a chance to approach, all the other children had had their fill. Erin and I walked forward together, grinning, expectant.
When we got to the priest, all I could see was the shiny bottom of the empty bowl. Every single piece of candy was gone. My sister and I were the only two kids in the whole church left empty-handed.
Not getting any candy on Christmas. It’s like a cliché a thousand times over, and my sister and I felt horrible. As the priest did his best to explain to two crestfallen toddlers that he just couldn’t make candy appear out of thin air, we wobbled back to our parents, eyes filling with tears.
But this priest was pretty good at thinking on his feet. As my sister and I slid miserably into our seats, he busied himself momentarily with the little nativity scene set up near the altar. He turned around and beckoned us back.
It took a little coaxing from our parents but eventually Erin and I trotted back to him. Grinning as if he had another surprise up one of his big ol’ priestly sleeves, he leaned forward and gestured for us to move nearer. As we did, we saw he was holding something in his hands. Erin and I looked down, hoping that maybe he had learned how to make candy appear out of thin air. Instead, in his hands was the statuette of baby Jesus.
“Do you know what this is?”
We thought we had an idea, but we both shook our heads anyway.
“This,” he said, “is the baby Jesus. He’s the reason we celebrate Christmas.”
He put the tiny manger in Erin’s hands, and the little Jesus in mine. The statuette had his arms open, reaching out to us.
“This is something very special, none of the other kids got anything like this. I want you to keep this somewhere safe, and set it out every Christmas.”
He smiled widely, and ushered us back towards our seats.
“Merry Christmas!”
I didn’t feel the impact of that event back then. I was too young to understand what a spiritual experience was. I was just pleased not to be the only kid left empty-handed. But the moment sticks with me today. From it sprouted a whole new family tradition for us, the tradition of setting the manger on the mantel, right between the tissue paper and glue angels and some recycled tinsel. We have never had a full nativity scene, just the lone statue of Jesus up there, and the story that tags along.
It’s not our most bizarre Christmas tradition. For the past two years we have dressed up as footmen, in costumes complete with Christmas light accents for a holiday parade. But it’s the story that makes putting the baby Jesus on our mantel one of our most important and celebrated annual events in our house.
It’s not our most bizarre Christmas tradition. For the past two years we have dressed up as footmen, in costumes complete with Christmas light accents for a holiday parade. But it’s the story that makes putting the baby Jesus on our mantel one of our most important and celebrated annual events in our house.