Grief, repair, and a shepherd girl standing guard
“She’s the reason I got this set for you,” my dear friend Phil said, carefully unwrapping the shepherd figure of the nativity set he had brought me as an installation gift. It’s an artisan set, and each figure is made from corn husks, which are softened and molded into beautiful shapes. It’s not every day that you see a young woman shepherd, just as it’s not every day you see a woman in the pulpit. Phil was always proud of the fact that I’m a woman in ministry, so I could feel his delight in seeing the staff in a woman’s hand. “Your new job’s a big girl job,” he joked. “Requires big girl panties. Just like her.” I laughed. Phil was the only person in my life who could create a moment so holy and profane, in equal measure.
To say I was unprepared for him to die a week later is…
To know this kind of grief is to not speak of it. To speak of it is not to know it.
Inevitably, the nativity scene became even more precious to me in light of Phil’s death, and I have enjoyed unwrapping the pieces each year and recounting the story to my children, both about Jesus’ birth and about the person who gave us the remarkable set. “Uncle Filipe,” they say. Yes. Uncle Filipe.
Last year, the dog got hold of one of the magi and one of the angels. I came downstairs to a full-blown murder scene and didn’t even flinch. (Stoically tidying up the evidence is a personal superpower.) I’m a bit ashamed to say that I truly forgot about it for an entire year.
This year, I opened the box and felt the weight of it in my gut. At least it’s not the shepherd, I thought, but the symbolism was unmistakable: a king without his crown, an angel without her wing.
I finally flinched.
I had known Phil since the day I took my ordination vows. He was the music director who found the perfect arrangement of “My Jesus, I Love Thee,” just as I requested. Broken crowns. Broken wings. The damn dog. Phil loved dogs more than just about anyone I know. Wait. Did you orchestrate this, Phil? If so, I’m not laughing. Phil was a counselor to me, but not the kind who coddled, ever. His eternal refrain was to “put on your big girl panties and deal with it.” So as much as I wanted to put those pieces back in the box for another year, I didn’t. And when I took another look, I realized I could fix them.
The wing was devastatingly easy. A dot of hot glue. Done. The crown wasn’t so easy. I fiddled with it for at least an hour and couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Why is this so hard? Attempt one: the points curl up. Attempt two: the whole thing falls to pieces. Attempts three through eight: inexplicable disaster. I tried everything: using two layers; flattening the curls with books. Nothing worked. I had to put it away.
The next morning brought the perspective I needed. I studied the other crowns for clues and finally saw what I was missing. In all the tiny crowns I attempted, I cut with the grain of the husk, assuming that the easy way was the way. These crowns are made by cutting against the grain. This time, it folded perfectly. The points didn’t curl. It didn’t fight me. You’ve gotta go against the grain. It’s easier that way. Problem solved. I recounted this story in a five-minute voice memo to a friend who sent an equally long response (IYKYK). “I think there was a reason you were meant to find those broken pieces this year,” she said.
The shepherd girl knew it all along.