When I was growing up, one of the signs that Christmas was fast approaching was when my parents went to the attic and pulled out their Nativity sets. Both my mother and father saved the manger scenes they had used when they were young, and every year each set would make an appearance in our home once Advent had begun.
My brother and I had the responsibility of setting them up, carefully pulling each animal or shepherd or saint out of its paper-towel wrapping and arranging it in its proper spot. It was always a thrill to unwrap a favorite object: St. Joseph, or the donkey, or a baby lamb.
My father’s scene went right under the Christmas tree, which we usually ventured out to chop down ourselves at a nearby farm. My mother’s Nativity set had a separate place of honor, on top of a wooden sideboard, resting on faux grass, wreathed in tiny white lights. A second honor belonged to her set: It was the site of one of the most memorable Advent traditions we practiced as children.
We were taught from a young age that Baby Jesus wouldn’t appear in any of the Nativity scenes around our house until we awoke on Christmas Day. He was hidden away somewhere in our house, and Santa Claus would find him on Christmas Eve. It was always exciting, after surveying the gifts under the tree on Christmas morning, to investigate each tiny manger and discover that Saint Nick had once again managed to find where Jesus had been kept and set him in his proper place.
The mangers, then, were left empty for Advent. It was the manger of my mother’s Nativity set that my brother and I were encouraged to fill with our good deeds leading up to Christmas Day. My mom cut long strings of yarn into short pieces, and each time one of us performed an extra chore or a kind deed, we were allowed to put a string into the manger. We were making it a soft resting place for Jesus, she told us. We were marking Advent as a time to prepare for his coming, to change ourselves so that he could make a better home among us.
Do we remember this each Advent, even when we no longer look at Christmas with the eyes of children?
These days, I don’t cut yarn for myself to place in a manger after I offer a good deed. In fact, I have yet to get my own proper Nativity set for my own home. But I’m reminded each year by my childhood memories that Advent calls for a change of mindset, a shift in my heart — a conversion. This season doesn’t demand the same sense of repentance and sacrifice that Lent requires, but it is penitential nonetheless, underneath the tinsel and the holly.
Though it coincides with our society’s celebration of “secular Christmas,” Advent calls us to a period of waiting, of quiet, of expectation, in contrast to the desire for immediate gratification or constant entertainment. As Bishop Robert Barron put it in his homily for the First Sunday of Advent, we can only experience Advent in its fullness, and Christ’s birth on Christmas Day, if we allow ourselves to admit our visceral, deep need for a Savior. We have to become acquainted with our own poverty, never a comfortable experience; to welcome him, we must empty ourselves to make room.
I’ve never been a stickler about refusing to play Christmas music once Thanksgiving ends or waiting to decorate the tree before Christmas Eve. I much prefer to get started early, and we ought to enjoy all the beauty and happiness of this season for as long as possible. This year in particular, so many of us are longing for that joy in a special way. But even in our celebration, even amidst the beautiful rush and bustle of this time of year, we should remain conscious of the need for silence and space, so that we might cultivate in ourselves a longing for the God who comes among us at Christmas.
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