Not a Normal Nativity - His Story is Your Story

The rain appeared so evidently not in his favour as he plodded down the empty London streets in the bone-chilling darkness. Each street light he passed seemed to be flaunting their energy and brightness at him, as if to say: "I bet you wish you were as proud as me!" And the truth was, he did. As pitiful as it seemed, he longed to be the lights, bright and energetic; he longed to be anyone or anything but himself.

Joe Hendricks was his name, but it didn't mean much to him. As a middle aged man in crisis, he had been broken and forgotten, the rain was his best friend and the lonely streets of nighttime London were his advocate.

It was Christmas Eve, and though he pretended to forget, the crisp air escaping his lungs in visable gusts, and the glow of Christmas Trees inside each crowded flat's window, proved it to him on all accounts.

Before long, he had reached his own, tree-less flat. And as if his lonesome walk wasn't shameful enough, the street light directly in front of his flat remained dead and blackened, and had been so for the past five months. Ironically, it flickered off the day he was let go at work and no one had cared to fix it since.

He squinted at the looming sign wedged center-most in the gravel pit that he called his "front garden." Even with the light out, he could still read those cursed words: "For Rent" and even made out the small print underneath: "By Owner."

He sighed deep and rubbed his eyes, hoping the sign would magically vanish, and his anxiety with it, but to no avail. Then, taking his routine steps up the short concrete stairs, the cold rain stung his hands as he reached the ugly white door he never liked the style of, and turned a well-worn key into the rustic lock.

He never was fond of the smell inside. Small patches of black mould grew as festive as holly under his window sill and since bleach was more expensive than bread, he couldn't be bothered to do anything about it.

He entered his one-room living space and flicked the dim lights on, not eager to do anything but sit and ponder life. Still, he crossed the room lazily to his only landline telephone, a part of it was blinking orange, suggesting new messages in his inbox. He clicked the small black button in the corner and listened to the only voice that had talked to him all day. It was a British female voice. "You have two new messages," it said somewhat robotically, "first new message:" it continued. "Joe, I hope you have packed everything for the 26th. We're giving you Christmas as a gift, but on Boxing Day, we will have the council there making sure you leave. We wish it didn't have to be this way, but you know the contract Joe, five months without rent is unacceptable. Besides, other people are willing to rent the flat. Merry Christmas though." Then it concluded.

He sat in silence for a minute and did exactly what he had planned to do: pondered—brooded, even. "You have one more message," the British voice interrupted. He glanced over at the idle phone and listened carefully, "Hi Joe? This is your brother, Scott. I hope I've gotten the right number? It's been a long time," he said genuinely, "Look Joe, I know you've had a hard time recently and I can't imagine what you are feeling. I just want you to know that I love you. You are always welcome to come have Christmas with me and Kate. But whatever happens, just remember Jesus Christ okay?" The messages ended and Joe gazed at the floor.

He'd forgotten about Jesus Christ. Rightly so, he thought, it was hard to think about Jesus Christ when all he could think about was his best friend dying in a terrible car accident, or his wife divorcing him from another man—not to mention his father leaving home when Joe was fifteen and never coming back.

Why would Scott want him to remember Jesus? Reluctantly, he walked across the musty room and knelt by a box. Reaching in, he pulled out a thick black-cover book. It was his first Bible, given to him on the day of his baptism. Then, surprising himself, he seemed to remember that the account of Jesus's birth was found somewhere in the beginning of Luke as he flipped through the thin pages. It felt foreign to him, but soon he had reached Luke chapter two.

"It wouldn't hurt to look," he thought to himself. Sure enough, he was right. He skimmed the passages till a verse had caught his eye. "And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people."

"Fear not," he thought, "good tidings of great joy..." He bit his lower lip and continued on.

"For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord."

"A Saviour," he read again, "I could use one of those right now," he muttered under his breath, retiring his pride.

"And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger."

The passage made his eyes sting. How could he have forgotten, Jesus the Christ was born with "swaddling" clothes and laid "in a manger." If anything, Joe felt like he could relate to this newborn. Not only was Joe far from being a beautiful, bright-shinig London street lamp, but he was at his lowest, soaking in puddles of humility. Or in other words, swaddling clothes and a manger is all he had too.

He wiped his tear-pooled eyes and looked at his only wall clock. "10:30 P.M." it read. He then shifted his gaze to the same box he had retrieved his bible from. In that moment, a favourite family tradition popped into his head. In an act of nothing else but desperation, he emptied the contents of the box onto the creaky floor boards. When he was really young, his family would find anything they could around the house and build a Nativity scene on Christmas Eve. He still had time.

The largest of the objects were half-broken picture frames of his friends and family; some even had cracks and rips in them from his anger-filled moments. It had been eight years since he had talked to any of his relatives. As he propped the pictures up to make the walls and roof of a makeshift stable, he felt ashamed. He was the reason for the eight years of silence.

He glanced back to the contents of the box but a pile of ripped up paper bits on the sofa appeared in his peripheral vision. He reached for them, frowning slightly. It was his curriculum vitae, the collection of his academic and work achievements—what was left of it at least. After being fired because the company he worked for wanted "fresh brains," he had torn the document to shreds.

He took the pile in both hands and spread it evenly on the ground beneath the picture frame structure. It would act as his hay.

Once the walls were propped up and the "hay" was spread, he sifted through the stuff until he held in his hands a small stack of papers. Hand crafted by his wife, each one had a small pet painted on it. Just nine months ago, he and his wife, Jane, had a handful of dogs, cats, fish, birds, and even frogs. One day, while his wife was out with friends, he had come home late from work and found the flat in disarray. The ugly white door had been kicked in and everything that even smelt like value was gone, even the pets, all except his favourite dog named "Pooch" who had evidently put up a fight but lost. Joe had to bury him up North where he could find a quiet nature patch.

He positioned the paintings precariously on top of the scraps of paper and leaning on the picture frames. They would be the animals watching the babe Jesus.

He reached into the pile again. "This is hard," he thought to himself. But so was swaddling clothes and a manger. This time, he scavenged together some cracked wooden chess pieces. At first, he smiled, then he yearned. His grandfather was a woodworker and when Joe was little, his grandfather made him a chess set with his special tools. It had meant the world to him. After Joe said goodbye to him for the last time, he put the chess set out on his desk where he could always look at them. But the day Jane asked for a divorce, he had upended his desk in rage. Each piece of the beautiful set had either chipped or broken entirely when they hit the ground.

With a broken heart, Joe placed the pieces thoughtfully to represent the shepherds and parents of Jesus. But still, the wise men remained.

He knew exactly what to use but didn't feel strong enough to reach for them. Joe's father had given him three collectable super hero action figures for his fifteenth birthday. But the next day he left home on a "business trip" and never came back. Joe hadn't seen him since. Hysterical now, Joe put the action figures together, facing the stable. Why did these things have to happen to him?

The wise men needed gifts to give. "That's how the story went wasn't it?" he checked the verses of Luke once more.

Solemnly, and very slowly, he brought forth a small felt box. He took a deep breath and opened it. A beautiful diamond ring stared back at him. He had spent hours that day with Jane because she was flustered and couldn't choose. Alone now, he refused to wallow and placed it in sequence with one of the "wise men."

For the second gift, Joe examined a clear plastic bag with sand in it, trying to remember what it was. Then it hit him, it was sand from his childhood sandbox. Up to the age of seven, his family lived in Connecticut, USA. He loved it there but they were basically forced to move to London on his father's work leave and Joe always believed it was the start to this perilous descent of life. His soul heavy, he gave it to another one of the wise men.

Finally, and perhaps more difficult than them all, he twiddled a dried rose in his fingers. He had pulled it out from the rest at a funeral service. A week after losing his job, he lost his only friend to a fatal car accident. The rose, and swelling emotions, was all he had to show for it. The third action figure was then completed and confirmed in its role.

One item ironically remained from the upturned box. It was a small doll, his twin sister's to be specific. She had left it on his pillow a few weeks after his dad should have returned home, then, without explanation, she ran away too.

He cradled it like she always did, tears dropping onto it lightly. All of these experiences had brought him to his knees at first figuratively, but now literally. He bowed his head like he had done so many times before and offered up a prayer. Before long, and as the humble words left his lips, it was as if he was the newborn, just opening his feeble eyes.

He asked for "good tidings of great joy" and expressed gratitude for "a Saviour." He expressed his feelings of poverty and loneliness as if he was immersed in "swaddling clothes." Then he gently laid his Savoiur on the hay, no crib for His bed. Neither was he a stranger to the manger.

Before concluding his prayer, Joe looked at his creation. He felt strongly that Jesus Christ was his story too. All his life project was missing was a star. He then pointed to his abnormal Nativity, "Take this from me Heavenly Father. It hurts so bad," he concluded.

Then, all went calm. "Fear not my son," an audible voice soothed, "it is good."

Embraced with Eternal Love, Heavenly chills ran down Joe's spine. "And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men."

A flashing light from the window caught his focus, and he rushed to it and peered out eagerly, hearing these words: "He is the light in the darkness, the shine in the crisis, and the star in perilous times. His story is your story. Remember Him." In an instant, the rain ceased and he had found his star, for that same old street light flickered on.

-Cale Kenneth Montoya (12-19-22)