Baby Jesus - The Santa Claus of my Childhood

I was ten years old when I decorated my first Christmas tree – a seven-foot tall Norwegian spruce, grown on our own property. The red, green, white and blue lights seemed almost miraculous – magnified and multiplied as they reflected off the long strands of tinsel delicately draped on the outer branches of the tree.

And on that Christmas Eve, I hung up my first stocking – a grey woolen heavy-knit piece of clothing that I wore inside my boots to fend off New England’s biting winter cold.

I went to bed that night, trying to stay awake but slipping off to sleep and then waking up on Christmas morning, surprised beyond my wildest imagination, as I stared wide-eyed at the array of games and toys that were loaded under the Christmas tree and bulging out of my stocking.

I knew how those presents got there – they came from Baby Jesus – or did they?

Baby Jesus was our Santa Claus, while Santa Claus, we were told, was a fiction – just a made-up character who was all about commercializing Christmas. Santa Claus was a fraud; Baby Jesus was God.

I no more believed in Baby Jesus, at the age of ten, than I would have believed in Santa Claus, had he been part of our Christmas lore. No one could convince me that Baby Jesus went out shopping in stores, selecting presents – gifts He knew I would enjoy – and then hand-delivering them to my stocking. It just didn’t make any sense. And the thought that He did this for children all around the world struck me as was simply ludicrous.

But being a good and obedient child – and a very perceptive one at that – I knew it was my responsibility to play along. I couldn’t spoil the fun for all the other children – the thirty-eight Little Brothers and Sisters who were part of my community and all of whom seemed to be mesmerized by the Baby Jesus charade.

A year later, when I was eleven and even more perspicacious, I had to play along once again, as we, Little Brothers and Sisters, were exhorted: “Wouldn’t it be lovely, dears, if each of you were to make something with your own hands for Baby Jesus to thank Him for bringing you presents?”

Twenty Little Sisters huddled together wondering aloud what an appropriate gift for Baby Jesus might be. “I’m going to knit Him a scarf,” said one child, and a second chimed in that she would crochet Him mittens. Another said she wanted to make Him a little cap to keep His head warm.

I was unimpressed. Knitting is way too easy, I thought. I could do it blindfolded and found the traditional stockinette stitch boring. I was intent on making something that would bring me special attention, that would ensure that my handicraft would stand out in a sea of ordinary gifts. And in a flash, it came to me – “I’ll embroider an outfit for the newborn Baby Jesus.” I’d been embroidering since I was six years old, when my mother taught me the first basic stitches.

It was the start of Advent as each of us embarked on our separate projects. Sitting on my bed each afternoon, I worked tirelessly for an hour or more, embroidering daisy stitches for the flower petals, cross stitches for the decoration around the edge, French knots, chain stitches, back stitches – straining my eyes until they were sore.

Within a couple of weeks, all the other Little Sisters had completed their simple projects for Baby Jesus, while I had made hardly a dent in my “masterpiece.” It wasn’t long before I began to hate the small white cotton gown with its endless pattern of as-yet unfinished yellow and blue flowers and decorations. Only pride kept me from giving up.

As I neared completion of my project, I started to wonder what would happen to my present for Baby Jesus. I’d put in untold hours of work, missing countless days of afternoon recreation – time to run in the woods, pick pinecones and climb trees.

Would the fruits of my labor simply be tossed into the wastebasket? It’s too small for a real baby, I thought. Whatever its fate, I knew full well that Baby Jesus would never see it, much less wear it.

Two days before Christmas I took the final stitch and my present for Baby Jesus was completed. I hand-washed it in warm soapy water, rolled it in a towel to absorb the dampness and then carefully pressed it wrinkle-free. My final act was to wrap the tiny gown in soft yellow tissue paper and put it in a white box together with a handwritten note that read: Dear Baby Jesus, I made this gown for You with my own hands. I hope You will enjoy wearing it.

I occasionally still wonder – whatever happened to my present for Baby Jesus?

Infant of Prague