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the nativity

Three Christmases ago, I had asked my dad if I could have the nativity my mom made. It’s ceramic and handpainted with such detail. There is shading in the creases of the clothing and contouring on the faces. She had painted patterns on the cloaks, thoughtfully complimenting but not matching. My mom always said she was “crafty”; she was really an artist. I adored this nativity that sat
atop the cabinet each Christmas. I loved getting it out of the Christmas Trunk and setting it up ‘just so’ with my mom. I brought it to my house so I could pass the love and tradition to Gianna. We carefully unpacked it and set it all up. I told her over and over and over that we don’t play with this nativity because it is fragile and for eyes only. She had a soft nativity I had made her and I made it very clear THAT was the play nativity, not THIS one.

Well, you can probably guess where this story is going. She just couldn’t help herself. She wanted to ‘take care of the animals’ and in moving the chickens, she knocked a wiseman to the floor, breaking him into 3 pieces. She gasped and clutched her fingers to her mouth. I couldn’t even say anything. I couldn’t yell at her. I just started crying. Sobbing if you must know. I dropped to my knees and quietly picked up the broken king. My three year old was crying too, telling me how sorry she was. How we could fix it. We could just glue it. It would be okay. Through my tears I told her it wouldn’t be okay. I told her how this nativity represents the memory of my mom. That it’s hard to remember her sometimes and now this perfect memory of her is shattered. 

“But mama, you have me to help you remember her”, she said as she cupped my face. She crawled into my lap and put her arms around my neck, tears spilling from her big blue eyes. 

I was in the midst of chemo that Christmas. I had kept my sorrow and fear of my cancer diagnosis and treatment hidden from her. I didn’t want her to become fearful. We laughed and joked about my bald head and she was perfectly content to have cartoon cuddle days when I was especially weak. But seeing something I held so dear in pieces on the floor just sent me over the edge. The flood gates of grief opened. Grief and sorrow of my mom’s death and facing my own mortality at 40 was impossible to hide in that moment. It was the first time in her young life she saw me as I am. A broken mom. A mom carrying uncertainty, grief, and fear. 

But, Gianna was right. She does help me remember my mom. Like how in my surly teenage years my mom desperately tried to comfort and connect with me. I felt like she just couldn’t possibly know what I was feeling. But now, I think mom probably knew exactly how I was feeling. I’m just not sure she allowed me to see her vulnerability in a way that would have resonated with me. Gianna helps me remember who I am too. A mom that wants to feel all the feelings, transform them into joy and make a difference in the lives of others. Now each year when we get out the broken nativity, I’m reminded not of perfection, but how life is messy and broken, but oh so beautiful.

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