Promise in the Manger

By Michael Floyd Thompson, Edmond, Oklahoma

As appeared in

Dust covered the top of the crates I dragged out of storage. They didn’t exactly scream holiday spirit.

It had been years since I’d opened Mom’s collection of Christmas decorations. Without her around to appreciate it, why decorate the house?

“Let’s see what’s inside!” my fiancée said.

The excitement in Stephanie’s eyes made the effort seem worth it. This year. Maybe.

I pulled open the first box and lifted out a three-foot-tall ceramic tree. Stephanie unwound the cord and plugged it in. Multicolored lights flickered to life. “Your mother sure knew how to celebrate,” Stephanie said.

That was an understatement. Christmas was Mom’s favorite time of year. She believed it was filled with promise and acted accordingly.

Each December our house became transformed. Mom wrapped garland around the banisters, stacked holiday dishes on the buffet and set out her hand-painted Santa’s workshop. The house reeked of Christmas.

After Mom died my family tried to celebrate Christmas the way we used to, but for me it just wasn’t the same. It was as if I had a big hole in my life where Mom used to be. A big hole where Christmas used to be.

Every year since I’d think about putting up the old decorations at my own place. Thinking was as far as I got. Then Stephanie and I got serious about a future, maybe starting a family of our own. I told her about the decorations in storage.

“Look!” Stephanie said, digging into another crate. “A little church—with real stained-glass windows.”

Mom liked to run her finger up the steeple, peering inside as if imagining a quaint Christmas service. Now maybe Stephanie would care for the little church the way Mom did.

I started on another crate and unwrapped the piece on top. At the first glimpse of blue I knew it was Mary, her expression as soft as I remembered.

Next I unwrapped a figure with an elaborate crown—the first of the three wise men. The next piece I identified before I even unwrapped it. Those two points could only be the ears of the donkey that carried Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem.

Pieces lined up perfectly before me as the pile of tissue paper grew: the angel with her trumpet, the lowly shepherd with a lamb slung over his shoulders, simple Joseph in his brown robe. Only one more to go. I know what this one is, I thought as I peeled off the tissue paper to reveal…a lamb?

But where.... The box was empty. “Where’s baby Jesus?” I said, searching through the pile of tissue paper.

“He must be there. Did you check his manger?” Stephanie said.

I held up the cattle’s trough that served as his bed. “It’s empty. And Jesus is nowhere to be found. But he can’t be missing. He’s the most important part.”

Stephanie and I rummaged through all the wrapping paper scattered across the floor. “He was there for Mom’s last Christmas,” I said. “She never would have lost him.”