eight

A few years ago, my man's parents gave us a beautiful nativity scene.  The figures are all knitted and felted by a local woman, and the wool is from the artist's own sheep.  It's lovely, and I adore getting it out each year and setting it up under our tiny tree.  In seasons past, though, when I put it out, I couldn't help feeling that something was missing.

That "something" appeared yesterday, in a shipping box from Ohio.  Carefully wrapped in tissue paper and bubble wrap was the creche set that we put up every year when I was a  child.  I remember spending hours standing on a tall red stool so I could reach the mantel over our fireplace.  I would play with the figures, moving them around to tell stories that--looking back--probably had nothing to do with Bethlehem.  To be fair, I probably just treated the whole thing as a seasonal replacement for my Playmobil figures.  But that's not the point...

Now the set is at my house--my "grown-up" house--and each year, I'll be able to take the pieces out of the box and share them with whoever happens to be around as our family changes and grows.  Even thought they're no longer stored in newspaper scraps from 1982--I swear I still remember what it smelled like--these little figures will always have the power to transport me.