By JeaNette Goates Smith
There
are not many things that I covet. I do
not covet the tennis court in my sister’s back yard, nor her swimming pool, nor
her spacious home, not even her restaurant-sized refrigerator. But she has one possession that I have to
work very hard not to covet. She owns a
15-piece olive wood nativity with a 13” high creche that came straight from the
Holy Land. I study the intricately
carved figurines, fascinated by the smug expression of the wise men and the
somber faces of the shepherds. I marvel
at the myriad of hues in the olive wood, color ranging from almost white to
almost black, with every shade of red, brown, tan and taupe in between. I collect nativity sets and one like hers
would make my collection complete.
I
had never mentioned my jealousy to anybody, least of all my sister. I have simply scoured websites, wandered
through kiosks at the mall, and concluded that one day I would have to visit
the Holy Land myself and hope they still make nativity sets there as large and
elaborate as the one my sister owned. I
had absolutely no delusions that my sister would give me hers, even in her
will. I am older than she is and will
most certainly die first. Besides, we
aren’t even close.
It’s
hard to conjure up familial love at age 50 when it didn’t exist at age 5 or
15. My sister and I grew up together in
what our father called a boarding house.
Just like a boarding house, all eight children came and went as they
pleased. Nobody was ever home at the
same time. There was no family prayer or family scripture or family home
evening or family vacations. At
Christmastime an evergreen tree sat naked in the living room with a lone
ornament or two a child had brought home from school. Not to be sentimental or maudlin, but a brief
understanding of the family history will help you appreciate the miracle of the
nativity.
The
explanation for this disjointed family was revealed when, with three children
still in school, our parents divorced.
Our father stayed in the home with the youngest children and our mother
moved time and time again, the oldest brothers banding together each time to
rent a U-Haul, fill boxes and heft furniture.
Finally,
after years of moving, our mother stayed put.
One day she decided she wanted to get rid of all the boxes she had
transported from one location to the next, so she rented a U-Haul, hired locals
to cram her boxes inside and drove it herself to my sister’s spacious house
with the tennis court and the swimming pool.
My
sister painstakingly began to open boxes and sift through their contents. At the bottom of one box, she heard
rattling. Eventually she excavated
several pieces of wood, all different shades, from almost white to almost
black, with every shade of red, brown, tan and taupe in between. With precision and care, her family glued
together a 15-piece olive wood nativity, straight from the Holy Land, with a
13” creche and a star in front. Not all
the pieces were whole. The shepherds’
staffs were missing. The star had lost
an arm. But she had two fireplaces in
her house. Her own nativity looked
stunning in front of the fireplace in the front room. This one fit nicely over the fireplace in the
family room.
Throughout
the week of Thanksgiving, and well into December, my sister enjoyed her extra
nativity set and rejoiced in her extraordinary Christmas decor. Yet as she
stood at her kitchen sink preparing a Christmas dinner for her family, she was
not content. She couldn’t stop thinking
of the sister 2,000 miles away whom she knew collected nativity sets, and how
nicely her extra one would complete that collection.
In
late December I opened this gift from a sister to whom I’d never been
particularly close and felt a bond I had not felt in 50 years. I remembered Elder Uchtdorf’s poignant
Christmas message, “Every gift that is offered to us—especially a gift that
comes from the heart—is an opportunity to build or strengthen a bond of love.
When we are good and grateful receivers, we open a door to deepen our
relationship with the giver of the gift.”
My
mended nativity means more than a new, intact, pristine set flown over from the
Holy Land ever could. This nativity is
the story of our family. We know what it
is like to have our home shattered, neglected, and cast aside by the owner to
whom it held no value. We know how
patiently we have had to build, to mend, to find new parts, and to accept that
there are parts that will remain missing.
Most of all we learned that bonds of love can be strengthened through
gracious giving and grateful receiving.
I will not look for a new star for this nativity set. I want the one with the broken arm. I want it to remind me always of this gift, a gift that is not only from my sister, but from The Lord. He knows both our hearts and wants them both to mend. We both consider this gift a tender mercy from the babe that is depicted on tan and taupe straw lining a manger.
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