​Keeping Traditions of Love Alive by Pennie Hunt

I do not remember every detail, but I do remember that I did it. I remember the fear—the tears. And getting caught.
​
One of my first life memories is of the nativity set. My mom would carefully put it out every year. It was her favorite Christmas decoration. I would look at it for hours. It was like a doll house filled with the magical story of Christmas.

​I loved the shepherds and the wise men, but the angels and baby Jesus were my favorite. My hands wanted so badly to touch the baby lying on the tiniest whispers of hay in the little wooden manger. This was forbidden. I am sure my mom told me hundreds of times, “Don’t touch, just look.”

It was hard. Standing in front of it my hands would lift and be on target to pick up the delicate baby, only to hear my mom’s voice… Don’t touch!

I am not sure how it happened. My mom must have been busy and didn’t notice. I scooped the baby out of the cradle. I closed my hand around him as tightly as I could and ran with him to the bathroom.  The only room I could close the door and not have anyone follow me.

I just wanted to hold him. See him closely and feel like he was mine. I opened my tightly held fist and there he was - broken into two pieces. His head and his body separated.

The moments between picking him up and running to the bathroom are blurred. Did I kiss him too hard or hold him too tight in my chubby little hand? I am not sure what caused his head to break off, but somehow it happened. I do remember instant fear. Instant panic.

I looked around the bathroom trying to figure out what to do. I did the most logical thing a 4-year-old panic-stricken girl could think of- I hid him in the crack between the wall and the toilet.

Tip-toeing out of the bathroom and down the hall I went into my room and crawled on my bed holding my dolls as if I had innocently been there the entire time.  
My memory feels like it was days, but I am sure it was only hours before my mom noticed the empty manger. She called my brother, sister, and me into the living room to stand in line in front of the nativity set. Pointing to the space where baby Jesus had been, she demanded a confession.

My memory is dark at this point. I am not sure how the truth came out, or how the dismantled baby was rescued from behind the toilet, but it was.
My memory comes back with me once again standing in the bathroom, door closed, sobbing and blubbering, “Nobody loves me but my daddy and he’s not here!”

My dad was on TDY, (a military term used when the Air Force sent my dad on temporary duty away.) This was my go-to phrase every time I was in trouble when my dad was gone. Occasionally it garnered pity, but not this time. My mom was way past any outpouring of sympathy for me.

Today I carefully opened the box and one by one unwrapped the white tissue paper that wrapped each character of the nativity set. Every year I place it on a small table covered with a doily my mom embroidered. The sheep go next to the shepherd. One angel kneels behind the cradle and one to the side. The three wise men are walking up to the stable. And baby Jesus is laid on the whisper of hay in the manger. His golden halo glows under the small blue light.

You can barely see the circle of glue around his neck. The circle that reminds me every year of my childhood. Of my mom and my family. The tradition of setting up this magical scene every Christmas. And reminds me of the circle of life that has glued my love for family and tradition together.
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                                                  Pennie’s Life Lesson:
                                     Remember the small traditions in life.
                                     The ones that circle your life with love.
                                ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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​YOUR TURN...        
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                                      ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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