A Christmas Story by Fr. Marc Vernoy

Sanford, Sts. Peter and Paul, 2026

“A Christmas Story” was written exactly twenty years ago for the faithful of the Priory I served in the south of France. “Omnis traductor traditor”; so every translation is a corruption of the original. However, I wanted to offer to our dear Floridian parishioners this story that to my surprise did not need any update. In return, please pray for me.

Fr. Marc Vernoy

Reproduction is authorized without restriction, provided that the text is reproduced in its entirety.

priorysecretary@stmpa.net | +1 407 872 1007

Adoration of the Christ Child (1619–1620) by Gheritt van Hontorst (source)

A CHRISTMAS STORY

The beginning of winter was rather gloomy; the pale sky was drizzling lightly. And the damp cold, driven by a gentle sea breeze, permeated everything. For more than a month, the Duvals had been busy preparing for Christmas in their little house in Montpellier.

Patrice had married Sylvie two months before the birth of their first child, Alisée, was now thirteen. Enzo had arrived three years later, as planned. They had planned to have two children, no more, and he was happy that the second was a boy. Well into their forties and soon to be fifty, the Duvals no longer hid their boredom, which was as dull and oppressive as the weather. In short, the four of them were muddling through life, each more or less on their own.

Sylvie’s boss, a considerate man—too considerate for Patrice’s liking—had given her the day off. She had gone out early in the afternoon to do some last-minute shopping and had left Patrice, who was, a postal worker, to pick up her father Jean at “Les Mimosas”.

Jean, 81 years old, was still deeply saddened by the loss of his wife Paule, five years earlier. The house in Alés had been sold so that he could be placed in this facility on the other side of Montpellier. How could an old man have managed on his own in such a huge home? And besides, selling it had allowed the Duvals to pay off the mortgage on the house in full.

They often complained that they couldn’t afford much. But they began to appreciate having roof over their heads, even if it was small. The housing crisis was becoming a reality they had to face. For Patrice, this concern was the reason he tried to keep his family together, much like how one arranges a motley collection of knickknacks on a shelf that is too narrow but so convenient.

At 6 p.m., Patrice walked into a deserted lobby. He strode purposefully forward, his impatience betraying him, toward an overheated dining room where a few slightly faded garlands hung here and there. They knew how to throw a party there, too. He rarely visited his father-in-law; this was the very first time he had come without his wife. He tried to make sense of the strange, unpleasant smell that hung in the air. “These houses always have a strange smell, but since we’re not staying,” he thought to himself, “we don’t pay much attention to it; in fact, it’s the smell of urine—the fumes—masked by the overpowering scent of various detergents, and ether too…”

Everyone was already seated at the table; the grumbling of an elderly woman, the faint background hum of a TV left on all the time, and a few moans in the distance were the only things breaking the silence. Sitting in a corner, a figure waited with his head bowed. “Jean, it’s Patrice!” The grandfather didn’t like to be called by his first name in the family. Nevertheless, his venerable face immediately lit up. In his large, wrinkled hands—hands that had worked hard for many years—he held a plastic bag through which a few simply wrapped packages could be seen. His noble silhouette rose in a movement that was slow, yet very dignified. With a warm smile, he said, “Merry Christmas, Patrice!”—and the whole dining hall could hear him.

Patrice, annoyed at having to leave his brand new plasma screen—which he still couldn’t get to work with his old equipment—replied with a faint smirk that barely managed to lift the corners of his lips. Visitors were so rare at the “Mimosas,” and as for going out, it was best not to even think about it.

Last year, the Duvals had spent Christmas in Tunisia… Fortunately, they had finally canceled their trip to Thailand this year. Rising oil prices, the Chirac tax, the decline in their purchasing power, and the significant expenses of this Christmas had managed to put a stop to this potential winter getaway. Besides, Patrice, who was a bit of a coward, didn't like either flying or tsunamis. But officially, it was their deep concern about limiting global warming that had led them to decide against flying for such a long travel.

Whatever the real reason might have been, the old man was truly happy; he was going out to be with his family. Unfortunately, his son-in-law had forgotten the umbrella Sylvie had prepared; so the two men, bareheaded, made their way through the relentless, biting drizzle to the small but very sporty midnight-blue convertible. “Too bad it’s Korean,” its owner thought to himself; he often caught himself thinking that whenever he walked past it.

The car pulled up in front of the one-story house, which was dripping in string lights. Patrice had spent several half-days replacing some of the decorations from previous years and reconnecting everything. It might have been in questionable taste; after all, the neighbors didn’t share his sense of symmetry, a trait that ran in the Duval family. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained hopelessly overcast; the cold was beginning to bite gently at their cheekbones. Three steps after pushing open the gate, Patrice nervously rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a large bunch of keys. They went inside.

Alisée, her ear pressed to her cell phone, could be heard from her room. “An iPhone,” Patrice proudly explained to his father-in-law, “thanks to your daughter, we all have one. She’s a pro at standing in line and bringing home the latest trends. It costs—well, just a little on credit—but for us, it’s pure happiness.” The Duvals often complained about not having the means, but fortunately, credit was always there to serve their ‘happiness’. “Their happiness scale,” Jean thought, “has dropped even lower this year.. Will they dare to turn it upside down? Does poor Patrice really believe everything he says? Poor man, he seems as fake-fake-fake as actors in American TV shows often come across.”

Mrs. Duval, following a well-rehearsed routine tinged with quiet frenzy, would have to once again wander the vast, crowded aisles of a megastore—veritable temples of consumerism—or once again stand in line to pay for her happiness. The little family had already spent the entire Sunday afternoon in the shopping districts south of Montpellier. The man in red, who was everywhere, was a marketing tool that worked like a charm on both kids and adults alike. But yesterday, with the convertible, they could barely fit the kids in the back. It is funny how Sylvie felt her energy levels sky-rocket when she was out in those big malls, behind the wheel of that giant four-wheeled basket. She also had to stop by the pool to pick up Enzo, so she would be even later. He wasn’t really into swimming, but Sylvie had decided that a little exercise at the club would be good for her son.

The Duvals didn’t impose many rules on their children, but even at age ten, you weren’t supposed to be glued to a screen all the time. Besides, she couldn’t expect Patrice to spare a little time for his son; he’s always too busy, so busy. Deep down, she would have liked a third, but two children was more than enough to worry about. Besides, the Duvals felt they were already giving more than enough of their time and money to these two. College would soon begin, and the mandatory success of their offspring would reward all of the parents’ efforts and satisfy a sense of pride that they felt was justified.

To satisfy Sylvie’s maternal instincts, the Duvals ordered a puppy online for 1,200 euros and were to pick it up the day after Christmas. In 2007, the Kennel Club letter C came just at the right time, so of course she named him “Chouchou”. “Lagotto Romagnolo is all the rage, and it can even find truffles in your backyard,” Sophie, the owner of the big pale green house at the entrance to the cypress-lined driveway, had advised. “Maybe our truffle hunt will make up for the cost,” Patrice thought to himself. “We’re bound to find some in the neighborhood. Yeah, because we've got little chance of finding any on the 1500 weeded square feet surrounding the house. We don’t even have enough space to set up our Évreux cousins’ little PVC above-ground pool in.”

The Duvals often complained that they didn’t have the means—the means to happiness. There was a sort of culture of resentment in their household. Coveting what the others had, or what they might be planning to acquire, and which they didn’t have. They also feared that the others would take away their time, their space, and everything they might have had that was better than what they had. They convinced themselves that the others resented them, that they certainly coveted what they had or what they could have had. As for who they were… they couldn’t afford to dwell on it, not even just for a quarter of a minute. Jean had sat down in the living room, right next to the Christmas tree. “Come to think of it, was it a real tree?” He touched a few leaves that were still sticking out from under a monstrous, multicolored avalanche of decorations. “No, those midnight-blue leaves—just like the car,” he said to himself, “are fake; it’s funny to still be living in a world that’s completely fake!”

Patrice, at the far end of the room, was kneeling in front of a large screen. He was surrounded by cardboard boxes, wires, and various papers; out of breath and very annoyed, he had just hung up the phone. “Aaah, no, no, and no,” he grumbled. “And that useless hotline! What on earth are they doing today! Its Christmas and we'd have no TV, no DVDs, no games, no internet, no stereo…” It was best not to disturb him at all.

After a few thuds and a shout from the front door, Jean opened it to his daughter and grandson. Behind an impressive pile of boxes, a few strands of auburn hair peeked out, but perfectly in place. “Can you help me?” she asked, out of breath. “Of course!” replied Jean. “Merry Christmas, Sylvie! Merry Christmas, Enzo!” “Oh, Dad, you’re here!” she said, handing him the first batch of her finds, then heading back to her car to get the rest.

Enzo, silent and scowling, with a beanie on his head and a gym bag in his hand, dashed off to his room. We heard the door slam, a few objects clatter to the floor, then silence, followed by a series of sounds ranging from hoarse to shrill, accompanied by the sound of him jumping like a leaping goat. Patrice hadn’t even looked up at his wife. And over at Alisée’s place, the same stream of words could still be heard, often punctuated by strange giggles meant to convey, in place of words, states of mind of abysmal depth.

Around 9 p.m., after she had finished preparing all her dishes and gotten her father to help her set a beautiful table, Sylvie called everyone over. It took another good twenty minutes for Alisée to finish her phone call, for Enzo to find the right moment to pause his games console, and for Patrice to pack away the plasma screen. In the Duval household, it was quite rare for everyone to eat at the same table at the same time. “I don’t like froie gras,” Enzo grumbled! “l won’t have any either!” Alisée continued. “lt makes you gain weight—Cynthia read it online.” “Even though my buddy Momo says you should never eat it,” Enzo argued, “he says it’s forbidden to eat pâté. And froie gras is pâté. He’s a religious guy.” “All right, kids,” Sylvie replied, “I got you some lobster surimi, and with my organic ketchup, it’s healthy, low-calorie, and festive.” “I don’t like your organic ketchup; I prefer the other one,” Enzo replied. “I’ll have some of that lobster too,” Patrice continued—convinced not by the “organic’” argument or the religious prohibition, but by the dietary advice—“I’ll have it with mayo.”

Outside, the temperature was dropping. Suddenly, just as the meat came out of the electric oven, a terrifying, chilling sound rang out—it was Alisée’s iPhone. “Awesome! It’s Ugo,” she exclaimed as she headed back to her room. “He’s calling me on his iPhone and sending me photos. Wow… This guy is awesome!” “I didn’t make turkey with chestnuts—that’s so boring and old-fashioned,” said Sylvie, forcing a smile that turned into a grimace. “I went for something exotic: ostrich leg with pineapple. It’s pure sunshine, pure happiness!” “We'll see!” Patrice replied curtly, his gaze fixed on the huge box containing the plasma screen. “By the way…” “Ostriches,” said Enzo—cutting his father off—“aren’t there any in one of the games Dad gave me for Christmas? There’s a huge bloodbath in that game, and I'm killing it!”

The juxtaposition of the words “bloodbath” and “killing” made Patrice look back at the repackaged screen. “Either I take it back, or I replace all the equipment,” he said in a voice that betrayed an overwhelming sense of despair. “Too bad it’s not open tomorrow!” The hostess carved the leg of ostrich and served Enzo first, who stuck his index finger into the meat. “It’s not cooked! I'm making myself a hamburger!” He got up from the table, grabbed a large bottle of soda and a bulging, round-shaped bag out of the refrigerator. He placed the bag in the microwave, slammed the door shut, and after a few minutes—following a faint beep—opened the door, carefully removed the thing with his fingertips, then went back to his room, from which came roughly the same sounds as before.

Patrice also got up from the table and casually went wallowing on the sofa, surrounded by cushions, flipping through a stack of computer catalogs and magazines with a weary look on his face. “To think I could have connected everything to the internet…” he muttered. “Tomorrow everything’s closed, so I'll have to set up the old system again…” His wife picked up the dish again. “It’s really worth having a state-of-the-art kitchen installed—I love pineapple, it’s good for your figure, and ostrich is low calories, too.”

Jean remained alone at the table, just as he had been at “Les Mimosas.” A large white napkin was neatly tied around his stately neck; his hands, with their long fingers, lay quietly on either side of a square, apple-green plate that was desperately empty. Then, from his big black eyes, big tears streamed down. He would have liked it to stop, but an uncontrollable shiver ran through his entire body. Horrified by what he had been seeing and hearing for over three hours, he wept until he was sobbing, all the while maintaining the dignity of a fallen patriarch.

The host, still slumped listlessly near the large cardboard box, pretended not to see or hear a thing. The contrasting attitudes of these two men, separated by only a few feet, stood in stark contrast. In the kitchen, Sylvie knew. “His present,” she thought, “we haven’t given him his present yet.” She walked past her father, carefully avoiding his gaze, and after whispering a few words in her husband’s ear, gently roused him from his stupor. Returning to the kitchen just as she had left it, Sylvie busied herself with correcting her programing mistake. With a keen eye, Patrice finally lifted his body—still slim, though—which he had been making run for twenty minutes every week.

He called for his wife and children. After the usual grumbling, Enzo—with a vacant stare on his face—and Alisée—still lost in thought—came into the living room. Sylvie, her apron in her left hand, stood in the doorway. “We haven’t forgotten you,” she said to her father in a steady voice, trying to comfort him; “as for us, we couldn’t wait—we opened everything at noon, before lunch.” “We went a little overboard again this year, but it’s not Chrstmas every day. Both of our banks have some great deals on personal loans. Patrice found you something that’s going to blow everyone away at “Les Mimosas” it’s amazing, pure happiness, you’ll see…” “They shouldn’t,” the grandfather thought to himself, “they complain so often that they can’t afford it.”

She walked over to the Christmas tree, bent down to pick up the last present, which was next to a plastic bag. Her father’s tearful eyes signaled for her to bring the plastic bag as well. Jean opened the beautifully wrapped package and took out a box covered in plastic film, on which was a picture of a device he had never seen before. He knew full well what a computer was. In Alès, he and Paule spent two hours a week at the seniors’ computer club. But what on earth was this little device for? “Its a GPS, Jean! Wherever you go, you'll know where you are! And this one’s the latest model! You’re going to be a hit at 'Les Mimosas’! It’s great, isn’t it?”

Patrice had lied a little. It was precisely because the device wasn’t the latest model that he hadn’t opened the package. His coworkers had given it to him in September, during a small party held to celebrate his promotion, which meant he was moving to a different department. From his pocket, Jean pulled out a large, pure white handkerchief; at the very bottom, the letters J and M were clearly visible, embroidered by hand. “It’s all Mom!” thought Sylvie. “She was so skilled; for Dad, it’s surely a keepsake he cherishes dearly.”

The old man gently wiped his face, moving from his large dark eyes down to the bottom of his long, pale, gaunt cheeks. A beautiful smile lit up that noble face once again. He wished everyone, once more, a “Merry Christmas!l” and tenderly thanked his son-in-law, his daughter, and his grandchildren for the gift, which he did not open. What on earth was he going to do with this thing, he who had known for so long where he came from, where he was, and where he was going—in short, who he was? “That’s what it meant to be mature—we say ‘adult’ these days,” he corrected himself. “This GPS, as they call it, seems to really turn adults’ heads. And when your head is spinning, you no longer know where you came from, where you are, or where you’re going—because you’ve forgotten who you were.” “That thing is totally has-been,” Enzo whispered to his sister, “at least one year behind.”

But everyone’s eyes were now fixed on the plastic bag that Jean’s long fingers had delicately retrieved. “Me too,” said the grandfather, “I haven’t forgotten you either.” He took out four packages, each wrapped in a different color—a green one, a white one, a blue one, and a yellow one—then a small bag, simply but very delicately wrapped in crimson paper, and placed it all behind his back, on Alès’ small pedestal table. “Before the opening,” Jean continued, “I would like to say a few words.”

His beautiful dark eyes first swept the room, and he took his time in the silence to stare at each person. “A very long time ago, on the 24th of December in Palestine,” he continued, “at the far end of the Mediterranean Sea, a man named Joseph and a very young woman named Mary arrived in a small town in Judea called Bethlehem. It must have been just as cold then as it is tonight; not a single cloud covered the sky. Only an unusual star was beginning to appear in the darkness. Mary was about to give birth to the Child Whom God had miraculously conceived in her womb. She had been warned by an angel named Gabriel. By surrendering herself to God, she accepted this gift and its terrible consequences. The Child of God was sent into this world to save men from the evil they do and the good they fail to do. As for Joseph, he was given the task of protecting the Child and his mother, and he fulfilled it magnificently. Summoned by the Roman authorities for the census, they had relatives living in Bethlehem. Joseph thought he would have no trouble finding a place to stay; surely the residents of those opulent homes would take pity on the expectant mother. Everyone was feasting, nice and warm; but for Mary, Joseph, and the Baby on the way, there was no room left. Those in the houses weren’t really happy; they tried to pretend they were by talking loudly and eating, drinking, and dancing. The clamor and the chaotic atmosphere stood in stark contrast to the silence and darkness, the cold and the solitude outside. They needed to take their minds off things to forget the humiliation of the Roman occupation. After all, without those Romans, they might not have been celebrating that night. Many of the native people were quite content with this foreign presence, which was, after all, quite beneficial and lucrative. But you had to put on a brave face and complain about it quite often—that was the rule. In fact, there was no room left, partly because of the Romans and partly because of the distractions they created to pretend they didn’t notice their yoke. In the end, it was impossible to tell whether they were celebrating because of their occupation or to forget about it. After knocking on every door, none had opened for Mary and Joseph. A woman—soon to deliver—they really should have paid her a little more attention; “but you don't want to spoil the party with that kind of worry.”

Pausing in his story, he turned to Sylvie. “Now,” he continued, “I have a question for my dear daughter: what have you done with your mother’s crib?” “What's a crib?” Enzo asked. “What’s this story about Grandpa?” “We've lost the Baby Jesus,” Sylvie replied, “that’s why I didn’t put it at the foot of the tree. Without the Baby Jesus, it doesn’t make any sense!” “Baby Jesus?” Enzo exclaimed. “The crib? That’s not cool… Is Baby Jesus Grandpa’s baby?” “Yes,” replied Patrice, “the Baby Jesus is the Child of Mary and the Son of God—didn’t they teach you that in school? … It’s crazy; they don't teach them anything anymore in those darn schools. We pay enough in taxes to expect them to be taught at least the basics—a little bit of general knowledge, for heaven’s sake.” “Paa’t, let Dad speak! No, wait, I'll go get the nativity scene.”

Mrs. Duval stood up, first set her pineapple-glazed ostrich leg back on the table, then grabbed a step stool and placed it against the large closet in the entryway. Standing on tiptoe, after lifting various items, she managed to slide an old shoe box off the shelf. During this dusty but generous shuffling, everyone helped themselves to dinner. “The little Jesus is gone,” she remarked, “he’s really disappeared! He was so cute, though—Mom took such good care of him.”

The “exotic and low-calorie” ostrich was a hit with everyone, perhaps partly because of the story of Jean and his mysterious gifts. “Now it’s time to open them,” said Grandfather, handing each of them a gift box.

The blue one was for Enzo, the white one for Alisée. Jean handed the green one to Patrice and the yellow one to Sylvie. “A little house,” exclaimed Enzo, who had been the first to open it. “Your house doesn’t have a door, Grandpa! Or a window, either!” Jean had skillfully crafted four little cardboard houses with his long fingers, each one the color of its packaging. Alisée pouted; she didn’t expect much from her grandfather. “Les Mimosas” retirement home simply couldn’t compete with the Duvals’ Christmas budget, and besides, she was past the age of dollhouses anyway. With her iPhone and designer clothes, looking like an ‘all American idol’, her grandfather should have noticed that she was already a real woman—well, almost a woman in every way…

Enzo already had big plans for that blue bunker; he'd see if it was sturdy enough on the battlefield among the monstrous miniatures from his favorite role-playing games.

Sylvie and Patrice, sitting across the table, were at a loss. “He’s crying like I’ve never seen him cry before—he didn’t even cry like this when Mom passed away—and now he’s giving us these strange cardboard houses…,” she whispered to her husband. “Cardboard” had become a term Patrice simply couldn’t stand to hear. “I thought the medical care there was decent,” he whispered. “Your old man isn’t actually coming down with a bit of Alzheimer's, is he? That’s going to send the nursing home bill through the roof… Besides, they might not want him at “Les Mimosas” anymore! We really can’t afford it. His entire pension and savings have already been swallowed up by this bottomless pit. Did you see? On top of that, we won’t even be able to take him home tonight—it’s starting to snow.” “Kids,” he said, raising his voice, “it’s snowing—it’s Christmas!”

Then Jean took out a pair of golden scissors out of the little crimson-red bag and spoke to the children while Sylvie and Patrice listened intently. “Your grandmother’s sewing scissors! To get ready for Christmas, my dear Alisée, my dear Enzo, we must all ask ourselves if we are ready to open the door of our hearts to the Baby Jesus, who comes into this world because He loves us and wants to save us. It’s Christmas Eve, and most men aren’t ready. For weeks now, we’ve been spending a lot of money, cluttering our homes with lavishly decorated boxes, and letting our minds and hearts be consumed by all kinds of advertisements and the desires they stir up. But no one thinks anymore about preparing themselves to desire Jesus in this poverty willed by God himself. A poor and humble heart is a heart ready to welcome the Baby Jesus, to see Him, to contemplate Him, and to live with Him in simple but true happiness forever. This is what Jesus Himself promised us! Earlier, your mummy said that a nativity scene without the Baby Jesus doesn’t make any sense. She's absolutely right! I'll go even further: Christmas without the Baby Jesus doesn’t make any sense at all!”

Sylvie crouched in front of the Christmas tree, her mind savoring her father’s words as she carefully arranged the twenty-two beautiful Nativity figurines—well, eighteen—since they had lost the Baby Jesus, and anyway, He wouldn’t be arriving until midnight. There were also the three Wise Men, who are only set up along with the Kings’ Cake. Here, too, Sylvie was having trouble keeping track of time; it had already been nearly two weeks since the Kings’ Cake had been on the pastry department. One by one, the figurines and animals returned to the places her mother, Paule, had taught her.

“Tonight,” Jean continued, “is the most beautiful night in the world for those who know how to throw open the door to their hearts, wide open like that poor and humble stable on the outskirts of Bethlehem. They stopped there; no one was around and not even a door to push open. Joseph gave the farthest corner—well sheltered from the drafts—a quick clean, right next to a donkey and an ox. He arranged a few wide planks that were already secured at head height, just above the animals, He carefully spread the finest hay there to make a bed for Mary, the Blessed Virgin. Only the star rising just above the stable lit up that dark night. And the expectant mother already knew that at that very hour, the Son of God, even before being born into this world, would be cast out of the city to be born in that poor, cold, and lonely stable. He comes to illuminate our darkness and warm our hearts, which are hard and cold as ice. My dear children, perhaps our hearts are like the closed and rich houses of Bethlehem, like those little cardboard houses that you hold in your hands. They have a roof over their heads, but they are closed in on themselves, in their darkness, in their selfishness and ignorance. They have no room for Jesus; they have no room for anyone. Do they really have any for the people who live there? They, too, become shadows of their former selves, because these stones are far too preoccupied with their own concerns. It’s no longer the Romans, but here a cell phone, there a video game console, and the internet.”

“But Grandpa,” Alisée retorted, “they’re my friends, my friends! The iPhone…” “My little girl,” asked Grandfather—she didn’t like the word “little”—“My little girl, all of this is for your pleasure, isn’t it? If I asked you to give me your phone so you could get the one Mom gave you last year—you know, right before you stopped by to see me at “Les Mimosas”—would you let me have it?” “Oh no, never!” she replied sharply. “It's mine, and besides, its not just a phone—it’s an iPhone, which is so much better. I can’t live without it any more; all my friends are jealous of it. And I'm connected, I can do anything with it. Plus, did you see its little purple case and cute pom-poms? It’s my sweetheart!” “Yes,” she blurted out, “of course, it’s for my own pleasure!”

“Alisée, it keeps you busy, it gets in your way, it consumes you—you’re no longer free,” Jean insisted. “And there’s no room left in your heart for the Baby Jesus or anyone else—it’s that and all sorts of other little stuff that take up almost all the space, leaving only what they’re still willing to tolerate from you for now. When there is no room left, then we are rich in what we do not want to be, and empty of what we should be. No, what keeps you busy, because all that keeps you busy is not worth it. Of course, you'll try every possible way to forget that these objects, these clothes, blind you—that they gradually succeed in isolating you, destroying you, and making you unhappy—and you’ll end up, if your shadow remains, no longer being able to bear it, trying to forget everything you truly are, just like those houses in Bethlehem.”

Enzo, though still quite young, had a pretty good idea of all this. He didn’t understand everything his grandfather said to his sister, but he thought he did; he could tell that since he’d gotten that game console and Internet access in his room, he hardly ever saw his friends anymore—he just didn’t feel like it. The presence of dad, mom, and Alisée also got on his nerves more and more. Enzo then looked up at his grandfather. “We need,” he said like a wise philosopher, “to open the windows so we can see, and a big door to let in the Baby Jesus and all his friends, Grandpa! And what if we’re wrong? The point is to give—to make others happy, not to please ourselves.”

“Give me your golden scissors, Grandpa, Grandma’s scissors, and Baby Jesus’s scissors,” Alisée asked softly after turning off the little thing wrapped in purple. “I’m going to open a big door in my white house and two round windows.”

“These little scissors cut very well; they can hurt,” continued Grandpa. “If you open the doors and windows of your heart—by giving of your time, by sacrificing small pleasures to bring joy to others—you may feel pain, just as Jesus felt pain when he came to live among men, just as you may have felt pain when you turned off that phone. But these scissors will give you the best thing in the world: the presence of Jesus, which never fades away on its own, and His love, which never deceives anyone. That is the secret to happiness. These scissors are golden because they are the scissors of poverty, of that care to always reserve the best place in our hearts for the One we await tonight.”

“But Mom said we lost it… Grandpa!” Enzo pointed out wisely. “There’s no point in waiting for something we’ve lost—we have to go look for it.” “We must wait for Him,” replied Jean, “so we must open our hearts to Him in order to be able to find Him—or to find Him again.”

Meanwhile, the Yule Log of Christmas was well underway. One after another, they passed around the little golden scissors, and each one discovered in their home a large, scarlet-red silk heart surrounded by several smaller hearts made of the same fabric. On the large, puffy heart, the word “Jesus” was embroidered in gold thread.

Before going to bed, Alisée placed her little house, with its door wide open, near the small space her mother had left between Joseph and Mary. Everyone else did the same.

Sylvie, kneeling, lit a bright red candle near the green house and kissed her index finger, which she then placed on the spot where Jesus was to be placed. After stowing the large box containing the plasma screen in the entryway, Patrice—convinced that no one was watching him—soon mimicked his wife’s gesture. A shiver ran down his spine, and from there a multitude of fiery streaks shot straight to his heart. Patrice thought he had grown immune to such trivial things. What intense joy he had felt deep within his being! It wasn’t yet midnight when, with the help of a son-in-law who was mute but whose transformed face spoke volumes, Jean pulled back the cushions from the sofa to turn it into a bed.

Late at night, Patrice, who was still awake, thought he heard the faint squeak of the gate and what sounded like the rustle of fabric against the front door, and then he drifted off to sleep peacefully. Around nine o’clock, a bell rang in the distance with a long, loud peal. Jean had been up for some time; the bed had become a sofa again, and he waited in silence. Patrice, still in his pajamas, went to open the front door, just to confirm his nighttime suspicions.

The rising sun and a thin layer of snow covering the ground dazzled his eyes. Not a single footprint had marred that immaculate white blanket. “Nothing but white,” he said to himself. Then his gaze fell straight down, right next to his slippers. A small item was visible on the white surface covering the outer entrance. His father-in-law was standing right behind him. The son-in-law knelt down, his eyes brimming with tears and his heart pounding; he carefully repeated the gesture he had made the night before, in front of the Christmas tree, and pressed his lips directly against the small object. Big tears streamed freely down his flushed cheeks. Patrice felt overwhelmed with happiness—the kind of happiness that lasts, that you can savor without ever growing tired of it. Between his right thumb and index finger, he carefully picked up the beautiful figurine that had been staring up at him from the ground. He had found the Baby Jesus for his whole family. An indescribable joy filled his heart as he moved from room to room to wish everyone a “Merry Christmas,” to show the Baby Jesus to his father-in-law, his wife, and his children, and to invite each of them to gently press their lips against Him. He improvised a little ceremony to place Him in the manger, with everyone present.

“Today’s Mass is at 10:30 a.m. at the priory,” the nun replied kindly over the phone. Patrice had also expressed a desire to talk with the priest. It had been thirteen years since their wedding that they had last gone to church to see Jesus. And there had been no Mass for their wedding. Whether baptized or not, everyone would go to Mass today to show Him their love—not to please themselves, but to please Him; people also say it is to do good, to love.

Love is incorruptible, it does not fade, it is not consumed, it makes us eternal, like Him, all the loves that can unite with Him. As for the Baby Jesus, only He knew how each of them had eventually found Him again or simply ended up finding Him.

Fr. Marc Vernoy

Fabrègues, Holy Angels 2006

With the exception of the Christmas story, this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to past or present events or living persons is purely coincidental, although we sincerely hope that such reversals will become more common.