O (not so little) town of Bethlehem

If I’ve learned anything from Louis XIV, it’s that wearing high heels makes your ankles look slimmer. No, that wasn’t it. I was going to say that I learned from Louis to surround myself with people who treat me like royalty and make me look good. My sister in law Echo is just such a person. Not only did she make lasagna for my poor family this week (and bring a double batch to freeze for later) but she suggested I write about our family’s Belén tradition. What a great idea. If anything qualifies as a Christmas work of art, the family Belén does. I can take zero credit for the photographs (Echo’s), or the nicely organized website where they are displayed (Echo’s again), or the enormously artistic process of making the Belén pieces and setting it up every year (my mother and sister Teri). I did, however, take the lasagna out of the oven. I’m not totally worthless.


The beautiful insanity of the Belén began innocuously enough when my parents returned from a mission to Spain a few years ago. In Spain, they had seen families setting up Bethlehem villages in their homes using clay figurines. My parents collected a “starter” set of a few dozen pieces to bring home with them. Since then, the census taken each year in the “city of David” has revealed a burgeoning growth rate. From a small village set up against one wall, Bethlehem has expanded to a metropolis that fills the entire living room. Last year it included hundreds of people and buildings, a complex topography that blended into the rock fireplace, and a waterway complete with a Galilean fishing boat and crew.

If you think that the crazy creative people responsible for this amazing production probably don’t sleep for much of the month of December, you’re exactly right. My mother and sister Teri pretty much allow this project to consume their lives for several weeks, for which those of us slugs who just get to enjoy it when it’s done are indeed grateful. Many friends, neighbors, and total strangers lured by the legend come to see the Belén every year. Its finest hour, however, is on Christmas eve when the kids and grandkids crowd into what space is left in the living room and watch as my mother shines a flashlight onto the various locations while my dad reads the scriptural account of Jesus’ birth.

Sadly, because of a huge flood in the basement (and subsequent ill packing job by the disaster recovery flunkies) Teri and Mom have decided to keep their sanity this year and keep the whole thing in storage. It’s tragic, but I suspect we will all survive and be even more grateful to visit Bethlehem next year.