The New York Times bestselling author of seven novels, including the recently released THE PERFECT LOVE SONG: A Holiday Story, Patti Callahan Henry shares her thoughts on Christmas stories --- and the ones that really matter most.
Christmas time is story time. There’s the story of Christ’s birth, the story of the Little Drummer Boy, the story of Santa Claus and the story of Scrooge --- a never-ending amount of stories. There is beauty in the fact that both books and Christmas come together to make us believe in magic, causing our hearts to open and stories to become a part of our lives.
My two sisters and I grew up as the preacher’s kids. We’d heard the real Christmas story at least a million times, if not more --- we knew the version from every Gospel. We knew about the star and the wise men and the shepherds; we knew that Mary became pregnant by the Holy Spirit. And we knew that Jesus was born in a manger --- and that he was already destined to die a horrid death for us, because he loved us before he even knew us.
Of course my sisters and I went to church even more than the average devoted member, but the advent season upped the ante: There seemed to be a service every day, with the pinnacle being the Christmas Eve production. There were three of these services: one for the early birds, one for the kids, and then --- my favorite --- the candlelight service. But my favorite didn’t matter, really, because we went to all three services as a family.
The children’s service was a full-blown nativity production. Congregants were assigned roles to act out, while the Gospel story was read aloud. There were the blessed roles of Mary, Joseph and Jesus. (Lucky were the parents who gave birth in October or November; they might be chosen to be Mary and Joseph, and their baby to be Jesus.) Then there were the wise men with their crowns and --- what was most magical for me as a child --- there was real hay at the altar, a real manger and a real (usually crying) baby Jesus.
The preacher (Dad) would call all the children to gather around the manger, with the hay and the baby and the somber Joseph. (His wife was about to give birth to a baby that wasn’t his, but God’s; no wonder he was somber.) One particular Christmas Eve, when I was of an undetermined age, I decided I was just too mature to sit in the manger scene and have itchy hay on my bare legs. I stayed seated while my littlest sister, who was about five years old, went on up to settle into the hay. Dad told the story and then began to engage the kids, asking questions.
“Now,” he asked, wearing his clerical collar and advent robe. “Who knows the name of Mary’s husband?” He pointed to Joseph.
My little sister raised her hand. She was (and still is) this adorable, blond-haired, brown-eyed girl, with a quick smile and tons of energy to share. The preacher obviously picked her.
“Yes? Who is it?” he asked.
“Noah,” she said, certain and sure and proud.
You want to hear laughter in a Christmas Eve service? There it was: full-blown, all-out bellowing.
But my little sister knew what Christmas was all about, and her heart fully loved that baby Jesus. Which just goes to show you: Sometimes one story grows into another one, like the roots of two trees growing side by side, and the names and facts don’t matter nearly as much as the heart and truth of the story. And our favorite Christmas stories aren’t always inside a book, but in our soul’s memories.
Tomorrow, Francine Rivers reflects on the holiday gift that helped restore her faith.
