This is a true story I am personally witnessed to. It happened in a parish I once resided. In my neighbourhood there was a typical catholic family of the eighties; John, Maria, and three daughters. Ah, three daughters (and no son) was considered a ‘curse’ by many, back in those days. The family was a ‘good family’; the father and mother both worked hard to give their children a good upbringing (rather the best upbringing they could). The parents themselves were from simple backgrounds. It was a family that daily said the prayers at nightfall, as was customary in the village. As a cheerful family; they would laugh and smile and greet everyone.
The neighborhood taunts (that John was not man enough to beget a son) seemed to get to the man; somewhere John started drinking. Instead of returning straight home, his feet began taking daily detours to the tavern. John spent long hours there nursing drinks before returning home. The man, who was otherwise mild, would often talk rubbish after drinking. No one dared approach him in that state. He could quite easily fly off the handle.
It continued for many years until one day the parish priest visited them at Christmas time. The parish priest looked around the house. The house had a ‘fairytale’ look. Yes, the man was very artistic. He had personally made all the beautiful decorations. The priest while appreciating the decorations, asked, ‘John, why not make the decorations for our church next year for Christmas’.
The man cherished the appreciation (perhaps the first time someone appreciated him). Here was a simple man with a simple job as a clerk in a small factory, used to receiving criticism at work (often for no reason), getting a chance to change. Around October itself, he brought home meters and meters of twine and crepe paper and other material (including brown paper and colours for making the crib). Each evening he rushed straight home and began making ‘flower’ decorations on green twine strings for three straight hours (before dinner) to hang up in church (and far more beautiful than he had ever made).
After the flower strings and other decorations were put up in church, John began making the crib. Brown paper carefully folded, took the shape of mountains and hills and valleys and the cave for the Holy Family. And then came Christmas Eve, with all its twinkling lights. The Church seemed like a fairyland. Midnight service got over, and the parish priest placed the baby Jesus in the crib. People all came and paid homage. They looked around and praised the décor. John was feeling pretty pleased.
But then came his turn at the crib. And something happened. John saw the arms of the baby outstretched almost as if asking him to take Him to himself. At that moment John burst into tears (a man, who never cried, cried unashamedly that night). No more did he need a ‘son’, when the child Jesus Himself seemed to reach out. John then became an even more devoted husband and father, and was a model parishioner until his death many years later. And every year, for him the Christmas miracle was relived. Every year until the end, his art talents also decorated the crib in that place. May the Child Jesus work a Christmas miracle in our lives too.
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