Here I go again.  I think just about every holiday season I have ever written about probably talks about something I’m nostalgic or sentimental about.

I can’t help it. Humor me, if you will.

I was fortunate enough to grow up with two sets of grandparents, both of whom lived on farms. But I also had a third set of pseudo-grandparents who were my next-door neighbors from the time I was born and through most of my childhood.

These neighbors, very special to my family during the growing up years of my brother and me, were a constant presence. They treated us like grandchildren, and even though they were around 10 years younger than our own grandparents, we treated them like grandparents. 

We treated their house as any grandchildren would and even had our own toys at their house. Our family exchanged Christmas presents with them, just as we would with family.

Now all of our grandparents were interested in enjoying our childhoods.  They were all interested in what we were doing, what we liked, and how we responded to things. As I said, we were blessed.

Our “pseudo grands” were always taking us along on adventures and finding things we liked, experiencing joy right along with us.  We were game for whatever they came up with and were pretty excited about all of their cool ideas.

I think what I remember most about them was their love for the things that were simple. We got a kick out of sweeping up sawdust after a carpentry project in the garage or helping roll out dough for cookies. At Christmas time, we enjoyed helping with their Christmas traditions, which were part of our Christmas too.

One of the things I remember most was traveling to Mt. Vernon with them one night to eat supper and then go see a live nativity scene. I was probably too young to even know what a nativity scene was, but I remember being told what it was and then being told we would be seeing a live one, in a real stable with real people and animals.  I’m pretty sure I was wide-eyed, thinking this must be something very special if my parents and pseudo-grandparents were touting it so much.

Even though I was pretty young,  I remember quite vividly the moment we saw the old church and the grand steeple  out front. The car slowed down, and I peered out the frosty, fogged up window.  

There was the cow, the donkey, and even a camel.  The wisemen were dressed in finery that I’d seen in pictures from my grandma’s big thick Bible.  

There was a drummer boy with his little drum, most certainly the one from my favorite Christmas carol, as well as some sheep and maybe a few goats.  

The shepherd stood nearby, looking like a statue, and I remember being a little startled when he tapped his staff on the ground.  Then, the animals moved too.  

For some reason, I didn’t get the “live” part and thought maybe the participants weren’t supposed to move.

Mary and Joseph were there, looking every bit as I’d imagined. I could not see the baby, but I could see the breath of all the participants, as it was a cold night. Upon closer inspection, I asked why they were wearing gloves.

But I can still remember my realistic mother calming my fears when I asked about baby Jesus. 

“Well,” she said, “They would be silly to have a real baby out there on a cold night like this. It’s probably a doll.”

Whew.  I was relieved.

Now, if I had visited a zoo before then, I didn’t remember it.  I’d seen cows and pigs up close, but I’d never seen so many different kinds of animals together. 

I’d heard the story of the Baby Jesus before, most likely at the little country church we attended where one of my grandmothers, a school teacher herself, taught us in Sunday School.  

But I had never seen the story come to life, with real people and animals. Somehow, at that moment and at that young age, I knew the story was quite real and had really happened. It most likely added to the wonder of the holiday, but I’m pretty sure my focus shifted back quickly to what loot I’d be scoring under the tree a few days later.

There are times I think back to that innocent, simple time in my life and wonder what life would be like if I still looked at things the way I did back then.  

Matthew 18:1-5 says “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

That verse speaks volumes to me, and I understand it better than ever.  We have to somehow approach our relationship with the Lord just like we did as little ones. We must somehow recapture that simple, honest faith of a little child.

Preachy? Probably. But something I needed to hear today and something I want to hold onto this season.