It took me all weekend, but it’s done. My house is decorated for Christmas. And you know what?

It’s beautiful.

Warm.

Inviting.

And it makes me happy.

I’m sitting here by a fire that my man laid for me this morning, admiring my sparkling tree, and chuckling at my nativity scene that my aunt Mary Ellen gave to us on Maddie’s first Christmas. It came from Sears (packed every year in what’s left of its original box), and the figures are bisque. It’s a set that most people would probably place out of the reach of little hands, but I never have. Because of that, we have lost a camel, a goat, one wing of the angel, a shepherd boy, and the latest casualty was just last year when a wise man who had been glued back together several times hit the concrete floor to his eternal demise.

“Put it up higher,” I hear every year. “It needs to be out of reach.”

But, every year, I put it right where those little people can see it.

Touch it.

Move the figures around to where the cow is on top of the stable, if they want.

Why, you ask?

Because those figures are not just characters in a nice story. They represent real people who played a part in the greatest miracle of all time, and I wanted my kids, and now my grandkids, to know that they are a part of it, too.

That miracle happened for them – for you and me – for all the world.

God sent His Son so that He could be hands-on with humanity, and all our imperfections, to make us eternally perfect in His sacrifice. I think that calls for children of all ages to be hands-on with the miracle of it, even if it means I have an imperfect nativity.

It just adds to the authenticity, yes?

For by one sacrifice he has made perfect forever those who are being made holy. ~ Hebrews 10:14 NIV