Live Nativity

I was driving back to my hotel room in Murphy, North Carolina after a long day of visiting a relative in the local nursing home.  My take-out dinner was in tow on the front seat of my car – North Carolina mountain trout and Yukon gold potato mash and sautéed green beans and Caesar salad – I was almost there, to my hotel room, where a bottle of Pinot Noir awaited me too, when I spotted a sign on my way up Holiday Inn Drive -- and it pointed to a steep hill just past where I meant to go, the sign reading, Live Nativity, December 17, 18 and 19, 7 to 9 p.m. 

I felt the car make a sudden jerk to go up that steep gravel hill where the sign pointed, at the same time hearing a voice inside of me say, today is December 17 and it is just past 7 o’clock and it will take only a minute and the trout will be fine . . .

Once up there, I was not sure what to do, for another sign said to turn off my headlights – and mine have been on 'auto' ever since I’ve owned the car and I don’t know how to override the intelligence of my vehicle on this.   Besides, I did not know if I should park the car or where I should park it, for there was not a parking lot but only a few cars lined along the gravel road atop this hill which was really more like a ‘mountaintop’ than a hill.  I could see movement within a crude open hut over to the right of me, and there was a small group of people dressed in gowns and robes and head gear – and all was silent and very dark on that mountaintop.  I felt very intrusive and out of place, and I started to lament my decision – and so I kept driving forward, hoping the road would lead me down the other side of the hill and away from the embarrassment of having sharp headlights that I could not turn off only because I did not know how to.   But the road did not lead down the other side, and I was forced to turn around and repeat my intrusion with the glaring headlights past the live nativity scene. 

And as I did so, I saw three men come toward my car with waving flashlights.  I was sure I would be reprimanded by each of them, and so, as I approached the first man, I slid down my window and apologized for the headlights being on 'auto' and told him I would leave now – but he said, no, no, that’s alright honey, you just drive on through past the nativity – and that meant I was to take a slight left turn to get into the loop of the drive-by . . . and when I did that, the second man came up to my window and I slid it down again and said the same thing, apologizing for not knowing what to do with my car – and he looked in at the confusing headlight dial and said, you don’t worry about it, dear, some cars will do that way . . .  now you just follow around the circle and don’t you worry . . . and so I came to the third man who also approached the car to, no doubt, remind me of the headlights still on, and I said the same thing to him – that I was so sorry and that the other men had pointed me on anyways, and I felt really bad about blinding everyone's eyes and I didn’t know what to do – and he smiled and said, that’s OK, sweetheart, you just enjoy the nativity . . . and he waved me toward the crude open hut . . .

As I approached this solemn scene, I could see that Mary was holding a real live baby in one arm, but that she was having to lift the other forearm to block the glaring headlights of my car – and yet, she smiled at me as broadly as any new mother, and she also used that uplifted arm to wave at me energetically and joyfully.  I saw Joseph to her left side, proud as any new father, smiling broadly too.  He endured the headlights and did not block them, but only bowed his head slightly and tried intently to look toward my car window to wave at me.  As my vehicle inched forward, I saw that I was now blinding the three wise men to Mary’s right – for they were all lined up in a row and wearing colorful robes and carrying receptacles that were no doubt replete with gifts of frankincense and myrrh.  But they squinted and smiled at me and waved energetically as though eager to share their good news.  I noted also that there were live donkeys and goats and even dogs curled up on the ground near Mary.

It was a beautiful nativity scene, just the way I had set up under the family Christmas tree when I was a child, arranging and re-arranging the ceramic characters as though they were parts of a dollhouse that came down from the attic only once a year.  This one was life size, however – and it was alive – and it was more friendly and happy and kind than I had ever imagined one to be.  For even when I had circled the scene and was about to descend the hill toward my inn where I would have a silent and thought-provoked dinner, the first man I met that night came up to my car window to thank me, and I once again apologized for imposing my glaring headlights on this dark and silent night upon a steep hill in the North Carolina mountains – and he once again said to me, don’t you worry about that, honey, we are just so glad you could come to witness the nativity with us.