Stolen Jesus
Typically a man of quiet spirit, my husband morphs into Mr. Christmas after we take down our Thanksgiving decorations. It's like he's saved up all his playful fervor behind a mask of reserve all year. And then, bam! Passing neighborhood children stop to gawk at his obsession—oversized hollow figures that light up, including a complete nativity scene. The baby Jesus is his most challenging piece, requiring not only a stake of wood like the larger pieces, but also wire to strap him in.
I've seen
dormant competitive streaks awaken during this time of year, and it peaks with
my husband Joe. “Kathleen's got her
manger scene out already,” he said coming home from a drive by his sister's
lawn.
I played
along, taking my husband's side of course.
“Yours is always bigger and brighter.”
“She didn't
strap down the baby Jesus. It might blow
away.”
“You've told
her before and she didn't listen. When
she has to pay $50 for a new one like you did, then she'll learn.” I am jealous of his sister. They have a shared childhood history in a
tight Philadelphia row home neighborhood cementing their relationship. It
sometimes makes me feel like an outsider.
December is
always a blur of happy busyness. But
come early January, the excitement of retro childhood fantasy dissipates as the
decorations come down.
We were
leaving Kathleen's home on January 6th one year, after a 50th
birthday celebration and reminiscing.
Joe checked his sister's nativity scene as we passed it on our way down
her porch steps. “She's lucky no one
stole her baby Jesus. She didn't zip-tie
him tight enough to the manger.”
I hated to
see my husband's playful side go back into storage for another eleven months. His antics with his sister back inside the
house was infectious, inspiring me to become an accomplice.
“Take it,” I
goaded as we strolled along Kathleen's driveway to the sidewalk.
Joe
laughed. “No.” He stole a glance to see if his sister had
gone inside.
“Why
not?” I pushed. “I dare you.”
He stopped
and said, “She'll need it for next year.”
“Joe, you'll
give it back.” I knew he was thinking
she'd be as upset as he was when our original one was stolen. “And you can leave a note or call her in a
disguised voice saying you're holding him for ransom.” I could tell he was interested. “Come on.
She'll know it's you right away.
And she'll love the fun you'll have with her.”
St. Joseph
said no more and adopted his sister's plastic doll for a year. We hid it in our home and took it out for
photo opportunities. The first photo I
snapped was of Joe behind the wheel of his pick-up with the doll atop the truck
above his head. He's smiling as if about
to drive away unaware of it. He left the
picture inside Kathleen's mailbox.
Joe works in
a rail yard, so he brought the poor baby to work and put him on the
tracks. Click. That photo arrived at his sister's with a
playfully written suggestion.
We also used
the doll to lighten up a serious family situation. Our daughter was admitted to the hospital and
needed emergency surgery. We brought the
doll to her hospital room. I saw a
twinkle in her eye as she mustered a smile while posing with the abducted
plastic. Her smile gave way to chuckles
when her dad took another picture of the thing on the windowsill as a
helicopter landed on its pad just outside.
The note attached to this picture was most fun because our recovering
daughter and her visitors helped write it.
There's a
picture of the baby Jesus presented to the camera by Kathleen's own teenagers,
taken at Easter time when they stopped by to visit our teens.
Kathleen responded
to the fun by taping a poster of her missing decoration to a milk carton and
passing it around to family who knew all about the prank.
The year of
the missing nativity piece extended family playfulness in such a uniting way
that surrendering the hostage was almost sad.
But as preparations for the next Christmas began, Joe returned the
decoration with gratitude for the love—and mischievous streak—of his family.
"Merry Christmas!"
by
Mr. Ducke
is licensed under
CC BY-NC 2.0
