In the stable.

First, you must watch this:

And maybe read this (Memo to the Archbishop of Canterbury: those eyebrows are inspiring. I salute you.)

The time has come for me to reveal my nativity crush. (You remember, that glittery occasion when I decide who of among the characters gathered in Bethlehem has particularly captured my imagination this time.) I’ve given it some thought, but after seeing a stable a few weeks ago, my heart belongs to Mary again this year.

If this trend keeps up, I may need to look into attending a Catholic church.

Mary won my vote again this year for all the same reasons she did last time, but also because of this: she was faithful to God in all of this, and then, when the appointed time came she birthed that tiny, defenseless baby in a barnyard. My soul doth magnify the Lord, indeed.

On a recent visit to a barnyard, once I stopped baaing at the sheep through the fence like an idiot, I realized that those ovine smart enough not to come and visit me were huddled together in a stable. I also realized that a stable is like a lean-to that provides about as much protection from the elements as the awning over a store window. Our lovely, sterile nativity sets are often much more generous with both square footage and actual shelter provided to the Holy Family. A roof over their heads is a fair description, but let’s be real about this: the Prince of Peace was born outdoors. Surrounded by animal shit.

Granted, I have never given birth. But I do know what it is like to have a brand new baby—and she didn’t see the inside of a grocery store for the first three months of her life, much less lay about in the hay next to animal excrement. I cannot imagine the fortitude of spirit it would take to birth a child in such conditions and trust that this was what God intended, or that his intentions for my life were good.

We love to clean up the stable when we tell the story. As I read accounts of the Christmas story to the Young MC, several of them embellish and talk about Mary laying clean hay and clean cloths in the manger, probably because that is what any mother would want to do in such conditions. But this teen mom didn’t have a canister of wipes or baby clothes carefully laundered in hypoallergenic detergent. Jesus was wrapped in strips of cloth, but I imagine those probably came from Mary’s own garments, which were probably filthy from travel. The story of Jesus’s birth is a messy one.

I find this to be an enormous comfort. Knowing that the Savior was born into the mess makes me feel like God in his omnipotence is meeting me halfway. I don’t have to be perfect, as long as I show up. This is such good news, as I am pretty good at showing up and lousy at perfection. Seasonal baking and impressive lighting displays aside, I think this is the heart of the Good News of great joy for all people. Be present in the mess, but be present. Gloria in excelsis deo.

So, from my poorly proofread, in need of a good vacuuming life to yours, I wish you a very Messy Christmas.

Now maybe listen to this: