Every year I pull out the humble stables and the various sets of nativity figures. And every year I have to add another angel, whose wing was chipped when he flew over the cattle (and crashed into the stable), or a new baby Jesus, because his little foot was broken off with all the kid-love. Poor shepherds and gallant wise men don't fare well in this home. They're battered with use. But that's okay with me.
Our little collection of stables is growing and I pray that as small hands send angels flying and Mary and Joseph kissing, that the greatest story ever told is penetrating hearts. That's why our nativity casualties don't bother me anymore. I want my children to remember how they played with those intricate pieces and re-enacted their Saviour's birth again and again.
