Apart from this calm and bright scene early in the morning, there was hardly a dull moment on Christmas this year. Molly mustered some puppy-like energy and actually unwrapped a few of her presents. My mom and I toiled in the kitchen to prepare dinner for my uncles, aunts, and cousins who came and filled the house with good cheer. My dad and my sister pitched in for a first round of doing dishes, rearranging furniture, and counting the place settings– every year someone jokes about "borrowing" some of the silverware– before calling it a night. Even in the quiet of night, I could still hear ringing laughter, boisterous conversation, and other joyful sounds of our celebration.
During the brief time that I snuck away for some prayer– while the jambalaya cooked– it occurred to me that the original Nativity scene was hardly a still life. Maybe there were some blissfully quiet moments when the little child was sleeping in a manger, but on that cold night, I envisioned Mary and Joseph as anxiously worrying about whether the child would be warm enough. Shepherds and magi alike were pressed into service– whether tending to the animals, helping Joseph arrange the family's belongings, or listening to Mary figure out what to do next. That drafty stable was hardly a place for passive bystanders; it was a place of activity where unexpected visitors became welcome friends and necessary participants in the newly unfolding human and divine story. As I returned to the kitchen, and then shared in the joy of hosting and catching up with relatives, that recognition of the very active nature of the Nativity story calmly and brightly illumined the evening. Everyone went home warm and well-fed, and nobody ran off with any of the silver. Thanks to us all, it was a truly merry Christmas indeed.
Most of the cousins on my mom's side... and I really am the second oldest.
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