Once upon a time I wandered a bit farther than I should have
from my hotel in Bogota, Colombia and found myself in a tiny makeshift shop of
an old woman who worked with clay.
I was instantly enchanted by her creations,
the intricate details of her tiny donkeys and saints scattered across the
folding table. The woman looked to be in
her nineties, her fingers were terribly snarled and crooked with age. In my tentative Spanish I asked her if she
made them all, gesturing to the figures strew about her. She nodded vigorously, then as if to prove
it, she produced a tiny burro from her pocket.
I could see the clay was still damp and dark. She began to carve and
smooth it, holding it up to show me how she worked the clay with one of her thumbnails.
She watched me looking over her wares as
I tried to decide what I should take, calculating how many of the delicate
pieces I could realistically cart back safety.
I had a tiny donkey in each hand when I noticed the nativity
behind her. I was immediately struck by
the serene expressions on the faces of Mary and Joseph and on the tiny baby
Jesus in his crib of straw. It was rustically beautiful. The lines of Mary’s flowing robes and the
magical tilt of her face were peaceful and perfectly wrought. In her sweet face
one could see all the wonder and mystery of her faith. The touches of white paint on the trim of her
hood and the delicate features of her infant were almost magical in their artistry.
It was at once both simple and intricate. This nativity had been clearly made,
not just by an artist, but by a woman of deep faith and love. It moved me, touched something in spiritual
inside me.
I put down the donkeys and pointed to the nativity. The
woman broke into toothy smile. Without thinking about how I would manage to get
such a fragile thing home in one piece, I handed her a twenty dollar bill –
almost twice the price she had told me. She produced a roll of bubble wrap and some
crumpled newspaper and proceeded to wrap each of the figures with deliberate care.
My holy family made it home with me unscathed. Every year
since, I have gently unwrapped it and set it out during the Christmas season in
a place of honor. Over the years, edges have chipped and some clay has crumbled
in places. I am dismayed each year to
find more clay dust in the wrappings whenever I unpack the figures. I am the only one who handles it and each year
I try my very best to minimize any damage. It has become one of my most
treasured heirlooms. It is one of the only things I own that is truly irreplaceable.
That is why when I came home that first afternoon and saw the anguish on my
mother-in-law’s sweet face, I knew. I knew she had broken something. As much as
I silently prayed it wasn’t my beautiful nativity, in my broken heart I knew it
was.
She had accidently bumped the table and sent Joseph tumbling
to the floor. He had been efficiently
decapitated, the clay fragments turning to dust on the hardwood floor. She was devastated, asking me over and over
if it had been expensive. I assured it that it hadn’t been valuable, and it
hadn’t been, at least not in the monetary sense. My daughter’s eyes were like saucers having
learned from a very early age that my nativity was never to be touched. She reached for Joseph’s tiny clay head,
visibly preparing for the rage she expected was coming. I looked at my mother-in-law
in tears and took one very long deep breathe before dismissing her apologies
and telling her reassuringly that it was “no problem Mom.”
After, I fled to the driveway to shed my
private tears and call my husband.
He listened, understanding at once the gravity of it all. I believe
he must have instantly began combing the internet looking for a replacement
sending me pic after pic of nativities that were nothing at all like mine. I
told him that was pointless. I knew would never find another like it. I told him how awful she felt. We agreed that he would not to
say anything more. The damage was done, it had been
an accident and there was no sense in making her feel any worse. I reasoned that at least I still had my
beautiful Mary and baby Jesus was still safely stowed away until Christmas
Eve. I admitted that we could probably
try to reattach Joseph’s head, sans his neck of course, and conceded that perhaps
no one would notice his missing hands or nose in dim light. I reasoned, I reassured, I conceded…and I
cried.
Standing in the
driveway in the bitter cold, tears running down my face, I managed to find a
surprising element of humor in the event. Suddenly laughing, I told him that how
nativity had survived the trek home from South America, three moves, 14 years
of being packed and unpacked, life with two dogs and a toddler and yet it could
not make it through the first 24 hours of his mother’s visit. If that wasn’t
ironic, I didn’t know what was. The laughter made my heart hurt less as
laughter often does.
By the time I went back inside, my mother-in-law and I had
both recovered from our grief. I thought the most important thing was that my
daughter had her grandmother here for the holidays. I thought about how much
that meant and how much more meaningful that was than any Christmas decoration,
regardless of how much it might have meant to me.
I looked over to the solitary Mary in her corner and saw
that the soft glow of the Christmas lights were casting bands of light and
shadow over her serene features. She looked
as peaceful as always.
I love my mother-in-law. Sometimes she is a virtual tornado
that knows no bounds…but…I love her. I
love that she loves me and my daughter with the same fierceness that she loves
her own children. She treats my daughter
like the treasure she is and lives every moment of her life to better the lives
of her children and grandchildren and asks nothing in return. I am completely and utterly certain this will not be the last thing she breaks, but regardless, I am blessed to
call her mother and to share my home and life with her. I welcome the peace of
forgiveness and the humility of realizing that in the end, things are still just
things. It is our people and our moments
with them that are irreplaceable.
