Palm Sunday begs to be distinguished from just any other first day of the week. It launches the period known by Christians the world over as Holy Week. Palm Sunday sets an expectant, celebratory tone, one that contrasts, shockingly and painfully, with the shattering disappointment of the terrible day we call Good Friday. In between falls the oddness of Maundy Thursday. So much is packed into the events of these seven days, which lead up to the triumphant culmination of Easter. Indeed, without Easter, the story of new life, hope and possibility would have been one of failure, death and despair. I’ve written about the days of Holy Week several times before. Below is my Palm Sunday post from April 1, 2012.
Palm Sunday: Everyone Loves a Winner
On the day that we’ve come to think of as Palm Sunday, Jesus was hailed as a celebrity, a military and political hero-to-be. As he and his disciples entered the city of Jerusalem, cheering crowds greeted him with cries of “Hosanna,” which means “Save us.” The news was out: at long last, the King of Israel was here. He was the chosen one sent by God to restore power to the Jewish nation. He rode on a donkey to fulfill the prophecy in Zechariah 9:9: See, your king comes to you, righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey.
It was a brief time of great rejoicing for the people of Israel. A new day of freedom and empowerment was dawning, thanks to the advent of the conquering Messiah. The palm branches they waved were emblems of Israeli nationalism.
In just a few days, though, the tide would turn. Jesus’s being hailed as the much-awaited Messiah would set in motion the events that would lead to his death. The admiring throngs would scatter when it became clear that he was not the kind of king they had desired and expected. Even his dearest friends would desert him. He would be betrayed by one of his own, turned over to the Roman authorities and crucified. On Good Friday, it would appear that this man was no winner.
Good Friday, however, is not the end of the story.
I thought I knew all my mother’s stories about her childhood and youth. Most I’ve heard multiple times, which is to be expected. My daughter would likely say she’s all too familiar with anecdotes from my past. (Except for one, which she heard for the first time recently, and it truly surprised her. But that’s for another day.)
Mama at about ten, ca. 1945.
A while ago Mama’s memory was jolted by a segment in one of her frequently watched History Channel shows. The topic was Robert Wadlow, the world’s tallest man. At his death at the young age of twenty-two, his height was 8 feet 11.1 inches.
Did she ever tell me that she met him when she was a little girl?
What? You met the world’s tallest man? No! How could you have never told me that?
My mother’s first grade school picture, ca. 1941.
She wasn’t sure. It must have slipped her mind, until just then.
As she remembered, her father’s brother Ben had taken her to a favorite restaurant on Main Street in her home town of Lebanon, Kentucky. This popular meeting spot, memorably called Humpkey’s, featured in many of Mama’s recollections. Open from early till late, it had a soda fountain, candy and ice cream sales in the front, and café tables in the back. Everyone, young and old, socialized, snacked and lunched at Humpkey’s. I have a vague vision of going there with my grandfather when I was very young. Apparently Mama’s uncle had heard that the world’s tallest man would be stopping by, and he took little Betty Ann, then no more than four years old. She couldn’t recall her parents, or any of her four siblings, all much older, being there.
But now she was starting to wonder if any of that had actually happened. Had she just made it up?
Main Street Lebanon, 1983.
It was thanks to my late cousin Maryella, who lived her entire life in central Kentucky, that I was able to confirm my mother’s recollection. Until her untimely and unexpected death, Maryella maintained a Facebook archive of old newspaper clippings on Marion County events. Searching her site, I found an article from the local paper, dated May 8, 1939, on Wadlow’s visit to the town. He was twenty-one at the time. For the past year, he’d been traveling the country as a representative of the St. Louis-based International Shoe Company, which supplied his size 37 shoes free of charge. Lerman Brothers Department Store on Main Street had invited him to make an appearance in Lebanon.
Main Street Lebanon, December 1984.
Robert Pershing Wadlow was born in 1918 in Alton, Illinois, a small town near St. Louis. His great height was caused by hyperplasia of the pituitary gland, resulting in excessive production of human growth hormone. At eight years old, he was already six feet two inches tall. At thirteen, he became the world’s tallest Boy Scout, at seven feet four inches. As the eldest of five children, Robert was a caring and considerate big brother. Growing up in Alton, he was a familiar figure in the community, accepted and well-liked. To his peers in school (where he was a good student), church and scouts, he’d always been just Robert, who happened to be very tall. But of course, he attracted attention everywhere he went. In 1936 he traveled with the Ringling Brothers Circus. He didn’t think of himself as a showman, certainly not a side show act. In his appearances in the center ring, he wore a suit and tie, not the flashy top hat and tails that circus bigwigs would have preferred. He saw his towering height not as a handicap, but as a feature that made him unique. Throughout his life, he was known for his kindness, humility, gentleness and quiet dignity.
Main Street Lebanon, November 1983.
According to The Lebanon Enterprise article, a sizable crowd had gathered that day in May to await the celebrity’s appearance. After arriving in the specially modified family car with his father, Robert climbed atop a flat-bed truck parked on the street as a viewing platform. His father addressed the group and spoke of his son’s rapid development from an eight-pound baby born to parents of typical height. Robert made a short endorsement for the International Shoe Company, but spent most of his time seated in a chair chatting amiably with curious townspeople. His demeanor was described as pleasant, humble and at ease. After a while, a few of the town’s tallest young men were invited to climb up and compare their stature with Robert’s.
Santa’s sleigh passes Lerman’s Store on Main Street in the Christmas Parade, 1983.
These details of Wadlow’s visit were news to my mother. But the final paragraph in the article noted that “following his engagement, the party had lunch at Humkey’s (sic) Confectionery and then left for Campbellsville.”
“You did see him, after all!,” I said to my mother. “And of course, it happened at Humpkey’s.”
Main Street Lebanon, December 1984.
Robert Wadlow died just a little over a year after his appearance in Lebanon. As he aged, his quickly growing body was under ever greater strain. He wore braces on his legs and used a cane to walk, but he never resorted to the use of a wheelchair. During a public appearance in Michigan, an ill-fitting brace rubbed a blister on his ankle. Because he had little sensation in his lower legs and feet, Robert didn’t notice the injury until it had become infected. Despite emergency surgery and a blood transfusion, the infection worsened, and Robert died in his sleep on July 15, 1940. Penicillin, which might have solved the problem, wasn’t in regular use until later that decade. His final words were “The doctor says I won’t get home for the celebration,” a reference to his grandparents’ upcoming fiftieth anniversary party.
The life of the world’s tallest man was unfortunately short, but his legacy is long. When I mentioned his name to my husband, he recognized it instantly. Not much of a reader growing up, he ordered a kids’ Guinness Book of World Records every year, if he could, through Scholastic Books at school. He remembered reading about Wadlow, and he knew his record had never been broken. “Wow! Nana met Robert Wadlow! Amazing!,” he exclaimed. My daughter’s fiancé, also a World Records enthusiast, was equally impressed.
Wadlow’s record will likely remain unsurpassed. His condition, known as pituitary gigantism, was accurately diagnosed during his childhood. It’s now typically treated successfully with surgery, but during his lifetime, that was deemed much too risky.
Robert Wadlow will be remembered as one who persisted through hardship, in ways that most of us can barely conceive. Daily, he navigated an environment built, from his point of view, on a cramped and unaccommodating scale. Think of an American Girl doll being trapped in a Barbie-sized world.
Because of his large size, Wadlow had no choice but to be visible. Far more visible, at all times, than most of us would choose. The typical celebrity has the option of dressing in forgettable attire and a baseball cap in order to slouch about unnoticed. Wadlow was never afforded that luxury. While his fellow citizens of Alton apparently took his outsized presence in stride, he could expect stares of amazement everywhere else. His attendance with his YMCA group at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1933 at age fifteen, for example, was caught on film. He must have tired of the never-ending stream of photo-seeking strangers. He must have groaned inwardly at hearing the same old jokes about his height. But those who knew him, as well as those who met him briefly, were impressed by his positive, matter-of-fact attitude, his patience with onlookers, and his complete absence of self-pity. He was not known to have complained about his condition or about being pestered by goggle-eyed crowds.
We all face challenges, but few of us are forced to deal with them in quite such a public manner. When I get the urge to whine about my problems, I’ll think of that tallest-ever man, a perpetually young man. Robert Wadlow persevered through unusual difficulties, all the while extending grace to those around him.
At one of her favorite spots, with a book at the picnic table outside her family’s Cape Cod rental cottage
My dear mother-in-law Doretta passed away in the early hours of March 4th. Since her beloved husband Jim left this world in October of 2022, she’d been lonely. She didn’t complain. But when asked, or when his name was mentioned, she’d always say, “I just miss him so much.” She carried on, despite her sadness and the growing physical challenges of Parkinsons’ and Addison’s Disease.
I had the pleasure of seeing her most Wednesday nights for the past several years. During the height of the pandemic, she joined my mother and me and other friends for an online Bible study through our church here in Virginia. As her mobility decreased, attending her local Rochester church, and getting out at all, became increasingly difficult. Our mid-week virtual gathering had become one of her few fellowship opportunities, and she appreciated the warm welcome our group extended to her. With my husband’s and his sister’s help, she learned to use Zoom on her iPad in order to join us. This was quite the feat, considering Jim had always been the one to deal with any and all tech matters. During the sessions we’d often hear Barney the cockatiel chirping away happily in the background. Barney, like Doretta, had been bereft after Jim’s passing. An odd, cantankerous bird, he was prone to hissing with apparent vehemence at everyone who was not his best pal Jim. Over the past two years, he warmed up to Doretta, and the two became good company. It was her nightly ritual to sit with him in the family room, watching TV or reading. She found that he got particularly chirpy during the musical performances on old Lawrence Welk re-runs.
At about age three, in her hometown of Jamestown, NY
Doretta was determined not to relocate from her house, which she and Jim had built as newlyweds in 1965. Thanks to the help of my sister-in-law Julie, who lives locally, several regular care-givers, many walkers and two stair lifts, one to the basement and another to the second floor, she had been able to remain in the home she loved so much. When my husband returned there the morning after his mom’s passing, on the table beside her favorite chair, he found her Bible, some recent books from our Zoom studies, and a manual on coping with Parkinsons’. He saw them as a testament to her quiet, patient perseverance. Throughout adversity, her faith was strong. Life tossed many hardships her way, but she pushed through, with a kind, encouraging word for others. She was a light bearer in our often dark world. It feels odd not seeing Doretta’s Zoom square on Wednesday nights, not to see her sweet smiling face, not to hear Barney’s tweets. I like to think of her in that heavenly cloud of witnesses, reunited joyfully with her darling Jim.
My husband taps a maple tree in my mother’s front yard here in Virginia.
Among my husband’s most cherished childhood memories are family outings to a remote location in western New York to feast on pancakes and locally made maple syrup. His grandfather Stan was a man of big, enthusiastic appetites, and he was a huge fan of maple syrup. He began the tradition of a mid-winter journey from Rochester, sixty-five miles south to Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn. Stan’s appreciation for maple syrup lives on in my husband. Last year, he decided to tap some of our Virginia maples and see what might result. His efforts were rewarded, and he repeated the process again this year, with certain modifications. His local syrup making will be the subject of my next post. But first, back to the sugar shack that started it all.
North to the Sugar Shack (first posted February 22, 2013)
The snowy landscape behind Cartwright’s, February 2013.
Last weekend, we drove to upstate New York for pancakes. Not just for pancakes. Pancakes and maple syrup. We met H’s family at Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn, a glorified sugar shack located, really, in the middle of nowhere. Its actual address is County Road 15A, Angelica, NY (2 miles from Short Tract), which, in the language of our GPS system, is “not on any digitized road.” Despite its truly out-of-the-way location in the midst of snow-covered fields, it’s a popular spot, with big crowds on weekends. It’s only open during the maple sugar season, which typically runs from mid-February through March or mid-April, depending on the weather. H’s family has been trekking out to Cartwright’s for decades, and now it’s among our winter traditions, even though our drive is far longer. Of course, we don’t return directly to Virginia, but spend the weekend visiting H’s family in Rochester.
Our daughter in front of the Maple Tree Inn, 2013.
The Cartwrights began producing maple syrup on their farm in the 1850s. The Maple Tree Inn dates from 1963, when the family decided to build a restaurant specializing in Grandma’s buckwheat pancakes served with their own maple syrup. In the adjacent shop, the syrup, maple butter and maple sugar cakes became available directly to the public. The somewhat ramshackle building has been expanded over the years and is now fairly large. It will win no awards for architectural style, but that’s not the point. In the chain-store sameness that dominates so much of our country today, the Maple Tree Inn offers a unique, quirky, authentic experience. It’s living history, and it’s worth a visit.
Before I met my husband, I had never tasted true maple syrup. The first time we ate together at PJ’s Pancake House in Princeton, I was surprised to see him pull a small container of pure maple syrup from his pocket. At the time, PJ’s didn’t serve the real stuff, although that has since changed. I didn’t understand what the big deal was. Growing up, when Daddy made pancakes on Saturday mornings, we used the typical supermarket syrup–Log Cabin, Aunt Jemima–whatever. H was no food snob, so I found his insistence on unadulterated maple syrup mystifying. That is, until that day at PJ’s, when I tasted the liquid from that little jar. H was right. There is no topping the perfection of the stuff that comes straight from the tree.
Visitors to the Maple Tree Inn are welcome to descend into the building’s lower level to learn how the sap is boiled down, in huge wood-fired evaporators, to its golden maple essence. Several years ago, a Cartwright grandson, no more than twelve or so, gave us a comprehensive tour that began in the frozen fields where we could examine the taps on the trees and see the liquid running into the buckets. This is not an option at IHOP.
These days, the rarified nuances of maple syrup, like those of chocolate, coffee and small-batch bourbons, are earnestly discussed at considerable length, using wine-lingo terms such as terroir. H doesn’t do this, although he can and does enjoy discerning, in blind taste tests, the variations between light, medium, and dark amber syrups. My palette will never attain such a degree of sophistication, but I can say this: a little true maple syrup makes life sweeter.
After a walk to explore the area around Cartwright’s, Kiko kept vigil in the car during our meal. Animal advocates need not be alarmed–he had his sheepskin bed and blanket if he needed to hunker down for warmth. Before this trip, in case it was particularly cold, we bought him a red plaid fleece coat. The temperature wasn’t low enough to warrant it, and he appeared perfectly comfortable, peering out from the front seat, when we returned. For his wait, he was rewarded with an extra sausage patty that H’s grandmother had carefully saved for him.
Kiko and I explored the area around Cartwright’s.
Kiko and D atop a tall snowpile on an earlier visit to Cartwright’s, in 2009. Kiko looks almost exactly the same as he did four years ago, when he was two. D, on the other hand, has changed.
Last week’s winter storm brought ice to our part of Northern Virginia. We awoke to a translucent landscape. It took me back to a time in my Atlanta childhood when I had little first-hand experience with snow, at least any that I could remember. My parents would wax nostalgic about family fun in the snow when I was a baby in Lexington, Kentucky. They seemed surprised that I carried no tender memories of making a snowman with Daddy when I was a year old. I grew up feeling sorely snow-deprived. Every once in a while, snow might be predicted, but typically, what we got instead, in Atlanta, was ice.
“First snow, Atlanta, 1971.” I’m standing between two friends in my childhood back yard.
The current Virginia weather prompted me to rummage through a shoe box of 1970s photos at my mother’s house. I was searching for a particular picture of me and two friends. It had been taken in our back yard on a day when school had been canceled due to a winter weather event, whether snow or ice, I couldn’t recall. But I remembered that the three of us had that characteristically awkward, disheveled, waif-like look of most ten to twelve year olds from that era.
I found the photo quickly. It was a rare snow picture. On the back I’d printed: First snow, Atlanta, 1971. While it obviously wasn’t the city’s first-ever snow, it apparently was mine, in that location. We’d moved to the neighborhood only three years before. My old green and red swing set is visible at back left, long before it became an arbor for wisteria vines. I’d forgotten that that our yard had been such a wide open expanse in those early years. By the time we sold the house, in 2017, trees, shrubs and foliage had grown up dramatically, creating the look of a sheltered, enclosed garden. The corner of the garage, at back right, hadn’t been visible like that for many years, nor had the homes on the street behind.
The details of that winter day in 1971 are hazy. Seems like we wandered around and gaped, in awe, at the alien snow-covered landscape. We weren’t well-equipped for actual snow play. Cold, wet feet and hands prevented us from staying out very long. My husband is amused at how ill-dressed we were for the circumstances, in corduroys or jeans, and sneakers. This was Atlanta,not Rochester, I remind him. Few, if any of my friends had snow boots or ski wear; we would have outgrown them before they were ever needed. Winter in Atlanta was less a season than an exotic, fleetingly ephemeral sensation.
My memories of Atlanta ice storms are more distinctly fixed in my memory than the snow days. Growing up, I considered any form of frozen precipitation a welcome break from the usual. Ice, snow’s cousin, was our more frequent visitor, and I found its effects fascinating. As I roamed the icy yard last week, I saw it again with the eyes of a much younger me.
I loved how frozen droplets, their motion captured mid-air, dangled from dogwood branches. I saw, with wonder, that every individual privet leaf had been perfectly encased in ice. Each leaf was twinned with its own ice copy that could be carefully removed. Amazing!
I enjoyed hearing and feeling the ice-clad blades of grass crunch beneath my feet as I walked.
I liked how the light filtering through ice-covered branches gave the sky a lavender tinge.
Suddenly, I was brought back to the present by a sharp sound resembling a gunshot. The birds at the feeder vanished in a whoosh, and pine boughs came crashing down. The temperature was rising, and the sleet had turned to rain, but the pines all around our house were bending lower and lower with the extra water weight. The power went out. There were more gunshot-like sounds. I could see cars slowing down out front, avoiding a couple of newly downed limbs.
We were fortunate in having only minimal damage to trees from last week’s ice. This week’s winter storm is just now beginning. Small snowflakes are starting to fall. Accumulation of three to six inches is predicted for the metro DC area. The ten-year old me from 1971 would be ecstatic (and far better prepared, in terms of apparel.)
Wherever you are, may winter wow you with its beauty, rather than its destructive power.
In recent days, I’ve made a decision to focus consciously on the good. On the beautiful. That verse from Paul’s letter to the Philippians (4:8) has been echoing in my head: “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.”
I won’t hide my head in the sand and deny reality, and I’ll try to find ways to be helpful. But I’ll make an effort to look for sunshine amidst the shadows. So my outlook was fairly positive yesterday as I was sitting at my computer, ordering stamps for our New Year’s cards. I added more of the Winter Woodland Animals to my cart. I love these stamps, which feature a stylized fox, buck, rabbit and owl in snowy settings.
Then, bang! There was a sudden thud at the window beside me. A few wispy white feathers floated in the air. On the ground was a dark-eyed junco, one of the many that fly down from Canada to winter here in Virginia. The small, gray and white bird lay on its back, motionless. It looked utterly helpless, its little legs in the air. I watched in dismay as it remained there, still. As I stood at the window, my instinct was to pray over the bird, in words something like this: Dear God, your eye is on the sparrow, so your eye must also be on its cousin, the junco. You made this little miracle creature, so why not heal it? It’s a miracle of flight. It’s a miracle that such a tiny being can thrive in this desperately cold weather. It’s a miracle of elegance and beauty.
I waited. Dear God, let me be a conduit of your love, of your healing power.
The bird remained motionless.
Should I go out? Give it the gentlest of nudges? I decided not to interfere.
And just then, the bird stirred. It popped up, fluffed its feathers. It appeared to be gathering its energy, preparing to fly. It looked fine. It looked like it was going to be OK.
Yes, yes, yes! Thank you, God!
A page showing the junco from my Golden Nature Guide to Birds, which I’ve had since childhood.
And just then, there was quick flash of dark feathers, and the little bird was gone. In horror, I realized I hadn’t been the only one watching the injured junco. A hawk, hidden from view, had evidently been eyeing its potential prey. It swooped down and disappeared with its catch. It flew away with the mini-miracle that had just seemed to regain its strength.
I opened the window and clapped and screamed. It was too late, of course. But my anger and anguish needed an outlet. I yelled myself hoarse. So much for the sunny side of life.
I’ve observed nature long enough to have seen first-hand evidence of its sharp teeth and claws, of the thorns among the roses. I know that the cute bunny on the Winter Woodland stamps may end up as dinner for the equally charming fox or owl. I regularly see handsome red-shouldered hawks about, silently surveying their surroundings. They gaze at me coolly, poised and superior. I get it that my bird-feeding area can occasionally be a death zone. I see telltale clumps of feathers on the ground. For several years now, I’ve noticed a solitary dove as it appears before and remains after its fellow partnered couples. Call me silly and sentimental, but I’ve prayed for that lonely dove, too.
I considered that the small songbird had been injured more severely than was apparent. Maybe it would have managed to make its way to a hidden spot, only to suffer a long, drawn-out death. Perhaps the hawk merely hastened the end while nourishing itself?
I understand that all creatures, including hawks, need to eat. I’m not a vegetarian. I eat chicken, so technically, like a hawk, I prey on birds. But let the hawks eat elsewhere. Anywhere but in my side yard sanctuary.
I keep replaying the events in my head. The abrupt juxtaposition of hope and despair makes the repeating vision particularly painful. I thought the little bird was a goner, then I thought it had a chance, that it had survived a near miss. That my prayers had been heard, and answered. Then I watched as it fell victim to a terrible fate and certain death.
I can’t help but see the series of incidents as emblematic of life in our times. Seems we’re entering an era, in our nation and in the world, where predators and tyrants are celebrated and granted free reign, while the most vulnerable are targeted, maligned, and persecuted.
In my last post, I mused about what loveliness I might be missing just beyond my windows. Now I wonder what terrible sights I’ve been fortunate to miss. Will I look out onto a happy haven or a killing field? Even on the sunny side, the shadows encroach.
Our daughter called on Monday evening to inform us of a quickly approaching astronomical event: the lunar occultation of Mars. As an aerospace engineer who minored in astronomy, she’s up on all that sort of stuff. I think she was somewhat surprised when I knew exactly what she was talking about. In preparation for my recent post on shadows cast by the nearly full February Wolf moon, I’d read that the moon would occult, or hide, Mars briefly on the night of January 13. To us Earthlings, Mars appears particularly big and bright now. It’s nearing the point in its orbit at which it’s closest to Earth. The side we’re seeing is fully lit by the sun, so the planet appears especially red. Those of us in the continental United States and parts of Africa had the chance Monday, under clear skies, to watch Mars, looking like a glowing red dot, move closer and closer to the moon until it disappeared behind it. After a while, it appeared again on the other side.
Thanks to our daughter’s reminder, around 8:45 I began stepping outside at regular intervals to observe the celestial show. Fortunately, it was another beautifully clear night. Through my bird-watching binoculars, I could distinctly see the tiny red jewel of Mars as it sidled up to the bright white globe of the moon. After a bit, it disappeared behind the moon. About a half hour afterwards, Mars emerged on the opposite side of the moon.
I would have missed the evening’s distant, silent spectacle, had my daughter not called. It made me consider, with wonder, what unseen curiosities and marvels, large and small, may be regularly unfolding around me. Often, they’re essentially invisible, as I’m lost in my head, preoccupied. Sometimes it’s with a cumbersome, amorphous anxiety. Or with small worries that tend to loom ever larger the more I dwell on them.
Every once in a while, I happen to glance outside at exactly the right moment to see a bird that’s not among the crowd of regulars around our feeders: a brown creeper hopping with zesty deliberateness up the pine, a golden-crowned kinglet flitting lightly among the leaves of the Japanese maple, a hermit thrush absolutely motionless on the bird bath. And the next moment, the bird is gone. What others come and go, without my ever knowing?
What mysteries are taking place in the skies above, and in the ground below? When this human-made world is too much with me, when people disappoint (just as I have been known to let down those who care about me), when institutions founder, when things prove faulty, when I’m close to feeling overwhelmed, I can remember to do this: Look out. Look up. Or down. Direct my attention to the everyday glories transpiring all around me. Change my perspective.
Right now, outside my window, the shadows are blue on the white snow. Two Carolina wrens are hanging upside down from the suet feeder, pecking mightily. A squirrel, the one with the fluffy ear tufts, perches atop a chair, looking thoughtful, its little hands clasped together. When evening comes, I can watch the now waning moon as it rises above the trees. I can remember to look for Mars, and for the bright stars of Orion. I likely won’t see another lunar occultation for a while. But I may witness something that will inspire awe and take me out of myself for a precious while.
On the first day of the recent snow, our feeder area was a lively spot.
Yesterday, deer searched for greenery in our front yard.
The Christmas Eve live nativity is one of our church’s most beloved traditions, very popular with the local community. For several hours on the afternoon of December 24, the painted nativity figures arranged in the creche are joined by a group of living, breathing beasties. My daughter and I haven’t missed the event yet.
The sweet, sturdy little burro was back. I love his floppy, velvety ears and thick, buff-colored coat. He’s the furry embodiment of patient, calm endurance. How appropriate that his long-ago forbear carried Mary and her unborn child across the rugged paths from Nazareth to Bethlehem.
The donkey’s partner was not the gray hump-backed ox of previous years, but a petite black cow. The two seemed perfectly content to munch hay and be admired by a continuing parade of humans.
A goat and a sheep hunkered down in the hay, apparently intent on sleep, but repeatedly awakened by small, curious, caressing hands.
The camel this year was Moses, a determined snuggler. As if on cue, he rested his heavy head on the shoulder of any person who stepped up next to him for a photo op.
These two kids were unsure about being in immediate proximity to Moses’s enormous face, so their dad held them at a slight distance. Moses, always easy-going, nestled his head on his trainer’s shoulder, instead.
During the hours that Moses the camel and his hirsute entourage are holding court, the inanimate nativity figures recede into the background. But once Moses and the other animals have been led back to their trailer (and are likely on on their way to their next gig in Northern Virginia), the painted figures remain in their places in the simple wooden creche. But on Christmas Eve there is an essential addition. The empty spot between Mary and Joseph is filled. A homemade manger holds a swaddled doll. The other figures have a focal point toward which to direct their reverent gazes.
When I first brought the fiberglass nativity forms up to the church, after finishing the work of repainting, I was struck by the bare starkness of the shelter that encloses them. Did it need some swags of greenery, perhaps? Certainly no red bows or shiny ornaments, but branches of fir, pine, or spruce? Sprigs of holly and berries?
But no. Even such natural decorations are part of the trappings of our commercial, cozy, secular “Merry Christmas.” The humbleness of the scene is the point. The nativity grouping speaks to a timeless, sacred truth. While that great truth inspires, to some degree, at least, the jolly festiveness of the season, it needs no dressing up. It’s fitting that hay is the only adornment. As the Grinch discovers, Christmas “came without ribbons, it came without tags, it came without packages, boxes or bags.”
The gift of God’s grace came on Christmas in the form of a baby, unfathomably both human and divine. That baby grew up and served as a role model for us, his fellow brothers and sisters. During his earthly life, Jesus personified kindness, compassion, mercy and forgiveness. In his words and in his actions, he taught that our life’s goal should be to follow his example.
The awesomeness of the gift of salvation offered to us through Christ’s sacrificial death can never be overstated. But Christmas reminds us to look to our brother Jesus to guide us in living every day, here in our present world. This world needs all the love we can give.
The group, after re-painting, in my mother’s living room.
At the end of September, a friend asked if I could give our church’s well-worn nativity figures “a coat of paint.” These fiberglass forms are set up every Advent in front of the church under the shelter of a wooden creche. They likely date to the early 1960s. The human figures vary from about three to four feet in height. Hollow, they’re filled with sand to weigh them down. I hadn’t given them a very close viewing, ever. I only remember thinking that they could look better.
Mary, before.
My friend had noticed that many of the forms were chipped, with patches of peeling paint. When he asked me to repaint them, I think he was envisioning a quick coating to cover the bare spots and reseal the fiberglass.
Joseph, before.
But I couldn’t do only that. The colorless faces called out for definition, for enlivening touches. The eyes, in particular, were empty and blank. The clothing could benefit from gradations in hue and shadow. The faces and bodies needed nuance.
As I mentioned in an October post, the task of improving the animals struck me as less daunting, so I started with them. I’m generally not a painter of people, and the human forms, I knew, would be challenging. I began with Mary. It was an easy decision to replace her golden hair with dark brown, but her smooth, oval face proved especially troublesome. I kept returning to her as I worked on the others. Gradually, she gained a bit of character. Once I darkened Joseph’s eyes and eyebrows, he was revealed to be quite handsome.
I brightened up the angel’s ghostly pallor in her face and wings. She’s one of the few figures to have ears. I tried to reduce somewhat the size of her right ear, which was particularly prominent. She still has a rather elfin look, which I find charming.
The shepherd’s expression, before, was a grumpy, curmudgeonly squint. I tried to give him a more benign, dignified demeanor. I also changed his purple cloak to one of brown. Purple dye, during ancient times, was exorbitantly expensive, since it was painstakingly produced from the glands of huge numbers of small sea snails. It was a color for kings, not for humble shepherds.
One of the Magi, before
Another wise man, before
And another wise man, before
The sole Biblical source for the three Magi is the Gospel of Matthew (2:1 – 12) which refers to “wise men from the East,” likely not kings at all, but astrologers, as they were led by a star to Bethlehem and the home of the holy family. Their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh attest to their substantial wealth. Because of their Eastern origins, they were probably not Jews. Some sources suggest that they could have been priests of the Zoroastrian religion, widely practiced throughout Persia. Their inclusion in the nativity story serves to demonstrate a crucial point: the baby Jesus was sent by God to be a savior not only for the Hebrew people, but for all nations. It was in early medieval times that the wise men began to be identified as kings, each hailing from one of the three known continents of Europe, Asia and Africa. The message in this identification is clear: the baby in the manger offers salvation to everyone, the world over.
The faces of the three kings were already nicely differentiated from each other. Because of their distinctive features, they required the least of my efforts. A more subtle application of paint brought out their personalities and enlivened them.
Of all the forms, the camel was probably the least in need of a makeover. I lightened his coat and touched up his face. His regally fringed saddle and harness needed only some shading and glints of deep red.
Finally, when the last coat of polyurethane had been applied (some eighty hours of work having passed since I dipped a brush into primer to start on the little lamb) it was time for the group to leave my mother’s house. Mama and I were sort of sad to see them go, as they’d appeared very much at home in her living room. I couldn’t squeeze the entire group into my little car at once, so I made two trips. They were pleasant passengers.
Now the nativity figures are outside our church, in their usual positions in the creche. There is a notably empty space at the center, between Mary and Joseph. That blank spot speaks to the essence of Christmas. No amount of elaborate decorating, or frenzied holiday partying, or masses of material gifts, can satisfy that hollow place in our souls. But if we let it, God’s love can fill us to overflowing, so that we may be bearers of kindness and compassion to those who need it most. Our world is often dark. But with the true gift of Christmas, we can bring the light.
Let’s all bring a little light, this holiday season!
A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.
