Silver and blue

The sheep were a soft silvery blue: cerulean awash in a spray of small silver splatters. They were the exact same colour as the shepherds and the dog and cow and donkey. The same colour as the wise men and their camels and, of course, Joseph and Mary and little baby Jesus. Even the manger was that amazing mix of blue and silver, the same shade of blue as my mother’s eyes.

I’ve never noticed any particular artistic talent in my mother, other than her piano playing. She sewed some of our clothes when we were young, but nothing we chose to wear once we had a say in it. I do remember her helping me and my two brothers to make ice candles, and macramé, and tie-dyed t-shirts, but that was a mom keeping her kids occupied, not a woman expressing herself through art.

But the year my oldest brother, David, was born, my mom was desperate for adult conversation and something to do. My dad had accepted an internship at a hospital in Spokane and was rarely home. She was in a new city with no car and a colicky baby who only quieted during long walks in his stroller. And the only thing of interest in her neighbourhood was a ceramic shop.

Mom says that making the nativity set saved her sanity. Throughout the fall, she’d drop by the cozy shop whenever she could, bringing David with her. A young mom, babe in arms, she nurtured herself as she unwittingly created something that would be treasured for generations. The shop owners fawned over the baby as they chatted with my mom about ceramics and whatever was happening in the world. Slowly, the nativity set began to take shape. It had 20 pieces in total, ranging from 12 inches high for the tallest camel, to baby Jesus who measured only one and a half inches long. Mom says she didn’t have the patience or talent to paint the faces and clothing and details of each piece, so she covered them all in a light matt blue, and added a splattering of festive silver. They were stunning.

Some of my earliest memories are of arranging the nativity set. When I was three or four, we had fireplace with a benchlike ledge, perfect for displaying the pageantry and procession of the scene. Jesus in his manger was always smack in the middle, with his parents gazing down at him. Joseph knelt on one knee, manly and protective, while Mary was on both knees, sweet and demure, her hands in prayer. I’d place the cow so that it looked past Mary’s right shoulder, between her and Joseph, because that was the only way the cow was able to see Jesus, who clearly needed a lot of watching. The donkey was on Mary’s left, and able to see Jesus just fine from where he was. I arranged small cuttings of Douglas fir between them, and pretended it was hay. Mom showed me how to strip fir needles from the cuttings to make a fresh soft bed for baby Jesus to lie on, giving warmth to his cold ceramic manger. I set the shepherds and sheep and herding dog on the far end of one side of the bench, and the wise men and camels on the other, moving them slowly closer and closer towards the holy family until they arrived together on Christmas day.

When I was seven, my parents split up and we moved to Vancouver, leaving my dad behind in the small town in which he was born. In Vancouver, we rarely stayed in the same suburb for more than one school year, moving whenever the rent went up. In a world of so much change, I loved the reliable sameness of the nativity set every Christmas. I enjoyed the ritual of carefully unpacking each piece from the box and guessing who I’d find within its newspaper wrapping.

As my three children grew up, I tried to show them the magic of the nativity set but they never quite saw it. They liked the nativity set, sure, but they’d place the pieces willy-nilly without thought. It was just a Christmas decoration to them. I’d have to remind them that Joseph was not a wiseman, or that the cow belonged in the manger and not with the shepherds. It seemed I was the only one who understood how the arrangement of the figures, and the hand-crafted figures themselves, told a story of love and birth and renewal. They deserved intention and respect. In the end, I gave my kids creative license to position things as they would, to tell new stories, but rearranged the scene myself a few days later when they weren’t looking.

Every Christmas of my life, except for one, the silvery blue nativity set claimed a position of honour in my mother’s living room. The only year that it stayed tucked away in its box was the first year after my son, Tristan, died. None of us – my mother or two daughters or myself – had the heart to decorate for Christmas. Somehow, it didn’t seem right without him. To me, the nativity set represented continuity, family connection, happier times. It felt like a lie and a betrayal that year. I didn’t even want to have Christmas dinner, but it was important to other people and so I went through the motions of hugging and talking and eating turkey because I didn’t know what else to do. We went for a walk through a glorious display of Christmas lights that I only half saw. In the end I was grateful to have family around, even with Tristan gone. Especially then.

The next Christmas, Mom suggested that my granddaughter, Ava, who was turning five on Christmas eve, take out the nativity set again. The ritual of continuity and family connection continued, the promise of happier times more meaningful than ever. As Ava carefully removed the pieces from their newspaper wrappings, Mom explained to her how she made the nativity set, fifty-six years earlier. “Why are they all blue?” Ava asked, as she began to see a pattern emerge. And mom told her. Ava carefully laid each piece in its place, in a way that made sense to her, I suppose, but made me cringe. She was doing it wrong, just as my kids had. The donkey, now with only one ear, seemed to be in a “time out” looking towards a back wall. The sheep were mixed together with camels, one of which now had a small hole in its side. Everyone was mercilessly crowding around Mary, who was gazing unphased, with eternal mother’s love, at an empty manger.  

When Ava thought she’d found all the pieces, my mom told her to look through the box one more time – there was still one missing. Putting her arm, shoulder deep, into the box of newspaper, Ava searched until her pudgy hand landed on one last prize. Her entire face lit up with excitement, and she said, “I know this guy! He’s Jesus, and his dad’s name is God!” Mom and I laughed at her innocent irreverence, as Ava proudly placed a now one-handed baby Jesus carefully in his cold ceramic manger and ran off to get a juice box.

Maybe next year I’ll teach her how to strip needles from fir cuttings to give baby Jesus a fresh soft bed.