It was a simple task, really, and one that many families had successfully carried out before us.
Our church had asked our family to take care of baby Jesus in the week leading up to Christmas. On the last Sunday of Advent, we set up the Nativity. We then brought Jesus to our home for safekeeping, swaddled in a purple blanket.
It was thirty minutes before the start of Christmas Eve Mass, as I was rushing to get ready and sweep everyone out the door, when the accident occurred. One of my daughters was carrying Jesus around in the swaddle when suddenly He slipped out of the purple cloth.
The wooden figure broke in two places, around the ankle and the wrist.
I couldn’t believe what had happened – but then again, I could. I’d worried all along that this might happen, but even my worst scenario didn’t play out like this, right before the service.
As my family drove to church, I was upset and tense. I wondered why we couldn’t be normal and handle this sacred assignment.
Naturally the church was packed, and as we walked into the vestibule, the two priests leading the service waved me over.