Rows upon rows of glittering baubles, dancing reindeer, and tinsel that sparkles under soft festive lighting. The familiar scent of pine mingles with mulled spice candles, and for a moment you can almost hear the faint echo of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” in the air.
But as I wandered deeper into the displays, something began to dawn on me — a quiet, unsettling realisation.
Among the mountains of merchandise and mechanical snowmen, there was not a single crib. Not one.
There were green dinosaurs wearing Santa hats, penguins on surfboards, smiling llamas wrapped in fairy lights, giant inflatable snowmen... you know the type of thing.
There were endless glittering stars and snowflakes, a thousand artificial trees, and more nutcrackers than I could count. Yet nowhere, not in all that glitter and glow, was there a single depiction of the Holy Family.
Only after an almost comical treasure hunt did I find two small boxes of Christmas cards tucked away on a low shelf — one showing a stylized image of the Magi on camels, and another, in softer colours, portraying the crib. Two boxes out of hundreds. The rest were full of robins, snowmen, holly wreaths, and cartoon Santas.
Now, I do understand that people love a bit of whimsy at Christmas. A green dinosaur in a Santa hat might make a child smile, and decorations need not be solemn to be joyful. But when the joy no longer points to its source — when the celebration has forgotten what it celebrates — something vital has been lost.
Christmas has not disappeared, but it has been quietly displaced. The baby in the manger has been moved aside to make room for novelty and nostalgia, for commerce and convenience.
Yet even as I stood there feeling this pang of sadness, I realised that this loss is also a calling — a quiet invitation to remember, to reclaim, and to restore.
Because every time we choose to put up a small crib at home, even if no one else does; every time we send a card showing the Holy Family instead of a snowman; every time we light a candle before the image of Mary and Joseph holding their newborn child — we are doing something quietly profound. We are replanting the seed of the Gospel in the soil of a culture that has almost forgotten where Christmas came from.
We are saying, with quiet conviction, “This still matters.”
It is so easy to become discouraged by how commercial the season has become. Yet if we think of the first Christmas — a night of humility and hiddenness — perhaps it makes sense. God’s greatest act of love took place not in splendour but in simplicity, not under the bright lights of palaces but under the dim glow of a stable lantern. Maybe it’s fitting that in our glitter-covered culture, the same God still prefers to be found in quiet corners — in the humble nativity scene at the back of a shelf, in the home where a family gathers to pray before a crib, or in the Mass that still echoes, “Glory to God in the highest.”
The garden centre’s displays were dazzling, but I left with a heavier heart and a firmer resolve. Because if I could not find the Christ Child among the Christmas glitter there, then I needed to make sure He was at the centre of my own home, my own celebrations, and my own heart.
So when I returned home, I took out our old crib. The figures are chipped and worn in places — the shepherd’s crook has long since been glued back together, and one of the angel’s wings is a bit crooked — but that only makes it more precious. Because this little scene of straw and light reminds us why any of this matters at all.
It reminds us that God so loved the world that He came to us not in power but in poverty, not as a ruler but as a Redeemer, not with gold but with grace.
Saint Francis of Assisi, who popularised the first live nativity in 1223, understood this well. He wanted people to see with their eyes and feel with their hearts the humility of God made flesh. As he said, “For humility, poverty, and simplicity were dearer to the Son of God than anything else.”
Other saints, too, have carried this truth like a light in the dark. Saint John Paul II spoke movingly about the nativity as the “school of the Gospel,” where we learn the language of love, silence, and adoration. Saint Thérèse of Lisieux would gaze upon the crib with tears, contemplating the littleness of the Child Jesus. Saint Bernard of Clairvaux reminded us that God’s coming is not just an event of the past but an ongoing grace — that Christ wishes to be born anew in our souls every day. Saint Nicholas of Myra, the real “Santa Claus,” gave away his wealth to serve the poor, reflecting the generosity of the Christ he adored. And Saint Teresa of Calcutta, holding the sick and dying in her arms, often said, “Each one of them is Jesus in disguise.”
They all understood what we so easily forget among the flashing lights and novelty decorations: that Christmas is not just a holiday; it is a holy day.
Perhaps this year, we can each do something to restore that truth. It doesn’t have to be grand. Place a small crib where it can be seen. Attend a weekday Mass during Advent. Say the Rosary before bed. Offer a prayer of gratitude for the gift of faith. Because these small acts are like candles in the dark — signs that, though the world may forget, we remember.
As I think back on that garden centre visit, I can still picture the green dinosaurs wearing Santa hats, smiling out from their display. But I also picture another scene, one that cannot be bought or sold — a tiny manger in Bethlehem, a baby sleeping in the straw, a mother’s gentle gaze, and a father’s quiet faith. That is the image that endures.
That is Christmas.
A Prayer for the Rest of the Week
For all who read this blog post and for all who never will
Lord Jesus, born in humility and love, remind us this week of the true meaning of Christmas. When we see lights and decorations, let us think of Your light shining in the darkness. When we give gifts, may we remember the greatest gift — Your presence among us. Bless every home where a crib stands, every heart that longs for peace, and every soul still searching for You without knowing it. Help us to carry the joy of Your birth into every place we go, so that even in a world of glitter and distraction, Your love may be seen. Amen.
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