The Night I Burned Baby Jesus

 

I think it all started when I was born. 

 

My mom said that when I popped out I didn’t really cry, I just kinda looked around with these big eyes, soaking it all in. 

 

When my grandparents would babysit me, to entertain myself, I would try and lay a sheet out as perfectly as possible…no wrinkles, only straight edges. 

 

Then at my great-grandma’s house, I’d reorganize her chotski cabinet, trying to make it as cute as possible. 

 

And every holiday was spent decorating, but my absolute favorite thing was (and still is) setting up my several little Christmas villages.

 

Point is, I’ve always been a pretty visual person. Even as an awkward toddler. But, the reigning example of my visual perfectionism happened when I was around five years old. 

 

My grandma had taken me out to shop for my birthday and Christmas. I knew exactly what I wanted, so we headed to Menard’s and straight to the Christmas aisle. And there, in a dusty white box sat my soon-to-be present: an outdoor light-up Mary, Jesus and Joseph. 

 

My very Catholic grandma explained the story of Jesus, Mary and Joseph in the car on the way home. I don’t remember really caring. All I cared about at that point was getting it home and setting up my manager scene. 

 

(It’s also worth noting, that I had probably been to church four times at this point in my life. I’m baptized, but my family isn’t religious. Don’t ask me why I was obsessed with Jesus because I don’t have an answer.)

 

I had to wait for other birthday presents and early Christmas presents to come through before I had the ultimate manger scene. Not daring to set up an incomplete outdoor scene, I set up Jesus, Mary and Joseph up in my bedroom. 

 

Every night, I lit them up like a night light, tucked baby Jesus in with a doll blanket and even read the trio books. I cared for them very much.

 

Then, as my birthday passed and Christmas approached, piece by piece my nativity scene grew. Soon, the trio in my bedroom had a lamb and two sheep friends, then a camel. It was all coming together.

 

I remember leaving one day with my grandparents and coming home to find my dad standing next to a real wooden manger he had built in my front yard. “This is it!” I thought. “The final piece to my manger puzzle!” 

 

With the help of my parents, I scooped up all my light up friends and put them in their new home. I had Mary, Joseph, Jesus, two lambs, an ox, a donkey, a camel, the little drummer boy, the shepherd, the Three Wise Men, an angel, and to top it off, the Star of Bethlehem. 

 

It was just about perfect. 

 

Later on in the week, my grandpa dropped off a bail of hay. “Here, Emily, a good nativity scene needs some hay” he said. And he was right. It did. Plus, in my little perfectionist mind, I was thinking, “Yes, perfect. This will cover up all the annoying wires.”

 

Unsupervised, I went outside and threw hay all over the ground and all over the wires. And I mean ALL over the wires. There was not a cord uncovered.

 

“Now, this is really perfect.” I thought. 

 

The neighborhood would walk by and admire my handy work. I showed it off at school and told my friends about it. I was very proud of my nativity scene. 

 

Until one faithful night.

 

My family was sitting on the couch watching TV after dinner. Someone knocked on our front door, kinda late for the night, so I followed behind my dad to see who was there. Our neighbor down the street looked at my dad, but he didn’t have to say anything. My dad, and I, saw the orange glow reflecting on my house.

 

“Hey uh, dude, your house is on fire” our neighbor muttered. 

 

My dad, being a cop and son of a fireman, jumped into action. He ran out the door, grabbing our hoses and our neighbors’. Soon, a whole neighborhood of makeshift fireman were in my yard trying to extinguish an enflamed nativity scene.

 

It wasn’t my house—only the manger. But the flames were reaching the second story window and the heat was melting the siding on my house. 

 

As Jesus, and all his friends, burned in my front yard, I balled my eyes out. My perfect little scene was ruined. My birthday and Christmas presents were fried crispy. 

 

Eventually the fire department showed up (a little late because the neighbor that called hung up before giving an address) but all that was left was a steaming pile of black ash. And three melted lumps of plastic where the Three Wise Men once stood. 

 

It was traumatizing to say the least. I am probably the only kindergartner that has ever burned Jesus, Mary and Joseph to the ground. I think Jesus has forgiven me though. 

 

To this day, the tree in the yard doesn’t really grow right and it took a long time for the grass to grow back. You can still see where the siding had started melting underneath my parents’ bedroom window.

 

Yeah, so moral of the story…I learned that sometimes, being a visual perfectionist isn’t always a good thing. And that hay and sparky electrical cords don’t mix. 

 

But, I can honestly say I am still the same person, in that sense anyway…just maybe a little more wiser. I still am detail-orientated and work very hard to make things look as best as possible. That is something that will never change.