By Teresa R. Tunay, OCDS On my last birthday, I was struck by the cruel truth
that I will this year be celebrating my 73rd Christmas. Seventy-three, OmG, it’s like ice water
thrown at my face.
I usually dedicate my birth month to examining my
life and meditating on mortality—and it helps that it’s the month of all Saints
and all souls. Last November turned out
to be nostalgic—which confronted me with the fact of aging, because nostalgia
is a right most deserved by those coming closer and closer to the grave. Thinking, “God, how many more Christmases
will You give me before You finally call me back?”, I reviewed my Christmases
as far back as memory could take me, and asked myself which of those brought me
closest to the baby Jesus. It’s a no-brainer:
the Christmas that did this was that which etched itself earliest in my memory—with
the help of the creche in my Uncle Jose Fermin’s house, painstakingly put
together by his wife, Tita Chol.
This “belen” was the highlight of my childhood
Christmases—a huge table by the Christmas tree (live pine) covered with sand to
contain a miniature Bethlehem, not only Mary, Joseph and the baby in a manger,
but also the Three Kings, a caravan of camels, shepherds and sheep, goats,
cattle, a rooster (!), and an angel floating over the manger and holding a
ribbon that said “Gloria in Excelsis Deo”.
These plaster figurines fascinated me endlessly, introduced me to
Bethlehem, and fuelled my imagination as I fondled them, in the same way that
maybe a little boy today would play war games in his mind with plastic soldiers
or “Star Wars” figurines.
The “belen” would since then accompany me through
life. When I was a young girl, Christmas
decorating was a family affair where everybody had an assignment; I was
expected to help make the “parol”. When
I reached my teens, I was put in charge of the “belen”, but my creations were
nowhere near Tita Chol’s elaborate tableau—just a few cardboard cut-outs of the
most important characters propped up on a bed of “hay” on top of the television
cabinet, or a ready-made “scayola” set placed beneath the seven-foot Christmas
tree, among the gift-wrapped empty boxes.
However, there was one Christmas I was too busy to
keep up with the “belen” tradition—being in the thick of preparations for a
wedding. In fact, on Christmas night, my
fiancé and I were in Quiapo, ordering flowers for our wedding the next morning.
The time came to bring Bethlehem to our own cozy home
through a “belen” for our little son. It
was fun to craft my own nativity scene from cardboard cones and crepe paper, at
times supplementing the catechesis with an assortment of pretty nativity-themed
Christmas cards collected through the years.
It was exhausting for me in my 20s to braid together
career and homemaking (I was wife, mother, tutor, nurse, yaya, diplomat,
psychologist, etc.) so that there were Christmases without any manger scene at
all in our house—just a white Christmas tree fashioned from tissue paper and
shiny balls, or worse, a foldaway meter-tall plastic evergreen, a mere ghost of
the fresh pine Christmas tree of my childhood.
(By then it was already a crime of sorts to cut down Baguio pine trees). But
what we didn’t have in the house we enjoyed outside of it; we would drive
around to gawk at life-size crèches in town plazas and churches, and the
motorized Christmas tableau that was then the pride of COD Department Store in
Cubao, and years later, Greenhills.
One day we received a Balikbayan box from the United
States; inside was—Wow!—a 19-piece
ceramic nativity set my mother-in-law Flor de Liz had painted at an arts-and-crafts
class for senior citizens! How sweet of
her! With lights, décor, and props
added, it was to become a conversation piece for many many years in our modest home,
so gorgeous even Tita Chol would have loved it!
But now… what’s left of the set is stashed away in a storeroom; I don’t
think I’ll ever want to put it up again.
I had lent the whole set to a retreat house, putting
it up myself. I was happy to share my
joy to so many retreatants and guests, but when it came back to me, the Baby
Jesus was missing, and a lamb, and a camel, too! Were they broken? Pocketed by some child who couldn’t resist
their cuteness? None of the staff could
tell—as though the trio merely vanished into thin air. It saddened me a bit, for what’s a crèche
without Baby Jesus? Never mind the sheep
and the camel.
Now that I’m recalling its glory days, and about to
savor my 73rd Christmas, I find that the nativity’s magic can still
transport me back to the age of innocence, imagining that the Baby Jesus (after
years of being displayed in our living room) had grown tall enough to mount a camel
and look for the lost lamb. “That’s why
they disappeared,” I tell myself and muse, “for all I know I was the lost lamb,
with one leg caught in quick sand, slowly being sucked into a system that
served many gods but had no time for the One True God.” Irony of ironies, in reality I’d gotten lost
while looking frantically for God, unaware that in my meandering He was looking
for me.
Do I now have a nativity scene at home? No, I don’t.
Tell me if it’s due to old age. In
the Holy Land where over several years I have escorted pilgrims five times, I
have strolled in the Shepherds’ field in Bethlehem, venerated the place of His
birth, walked down Via Dolorosa bearing a token cross, done the whole pilgrim
route over and over again it’s like the classic “been there, done that”. It matters little to me now whether or not I
have a crèche in my “hermitage”, but I do seriously wonder how Jesus would feel
about the state of Bethlehem today, in the light of the Israeli-Palestinian
conflict, this endless fight over borders. A carol rings between my ears: “O little town of Bethlehem, how still we
see thee lie…” I cannot say
Bethlehem today lies still. Peace is
elusive in the place where the Prince of Peace was born. Were Jesus to revisit Bethlehem today as man,
would he weep over it as he did over Jerusalem before he was crucified? And would he be welcome there?
We can outgrow Santa Claus, but we should never
outgrow Bethlehem. In spite of all that
Bethlehem has been through, we continue to celebrate the fact that our Savior
was born there, and pray that one day we can say to the Lord Himself, “I am
Bethlehem; come, be born in me.” The carol
reverberates inside my head: “O Holy
Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray.
Cast out our sin and enter in, be born to us today…” As I write this, I pray that each of us may
become a Bethlehem without borders, witnessing to the love of God for all
mankind. And that's the truth.