Around this time every year, somebody in my family will remind me of the legend of Mary and the donkey. And no, I don’t mean the Christmas story where a heavily pregnant Mary rode a donkey to Bethlehem before giving birth to baby Jesus. My family’s legend goes a little differently.
It begins when I was three years old. It was the year 2001 and my baby brother’s first birthday was approaching. It had been 12 months since that chubby baby had usurped my position as the sole object of my parents’ affection and attention. To add insult to injury, his arrival had brought with it the rule that Christmas celebrations would not begin in our household until after his birthday in early December.
Ignoring his birthday celebrations, I instead embraced my aggressive love of all things Christmas. But as a three-year-old, I still didn’t fully understand the concept of Christmas.
My knowledge was limited to Mum’s rule that I could only open one window each day on the special calendar that had chocolates inside it. I knew that the twinkling lights on some houses in our neighbourhood were there because of Christmas. And I believed with absolute certainty that Santa would deliver presents wrapped in shiny paper for me to wake up to on Christmas morning.
I suspect that my toddler-brain understanding of Christmas triggered some Catholic guilt in my parents.
I suspect that my toddler-brain understanding of Christmas triggered some Catholic guilt in my parents. And I can only assume that they tried to rectify that the only way they knew how; by reading the Christmas story to me.
Three parts of the story stuck. One – A long time ago there was a lady called Mary. Two – She had to ride a donkey to Bethlehem to give birth to baby Jesus. Three – Christmas is the day that we celebrate baby Jesus being born.
In hindsight, these are dangerous things to tell a three-year-old who finds herself in the company of a baby whose first birthday is approaching.
But Mum couldn’t possibly have known that. One morning, needing to hang a couple of things on the washing line in the backyard, she left my brother and I in the living room. When she came back inside, she found me – bored with whatever activity she’d left me doing – sitting astride him.
Horrified, she grabbed me and pulled me off him. Checking to see whether he was okay she asked me what I had been doing. Bewildered by her panicked reaction to playtime with my baby brother I answered her; “I’m Mary, and he’s the donkey!”
Bewildered by her panicked reaction to playtime with my baby brother I answered her; “I’m Mary, and he’s the donkey!”
I have no idea if Mum realised the hilarity of it immediately or if the joke developed with each subsequent re-telling of the story. I’ve heard it so many times now that despite having no actual recollection of the incident, I can tell the story as if the memory is mine. Twenty years later, the story is firmly embedded in our family lore.
Every family has a story like ours that they pull out each Christmas. Often, they’re as well-worn as our childhood Christmas stockings, as familiar as the angel with misshapen wings that sits atop the tree.
When we tell these stories we unwittingly draw closer to the true meaning of Christmas. Not the allure of food and glitter and presents that my three-year-old self was so excited about, but the love stories that bind us together.
Two years into the pandemic, we’ve all come to the realisation that family Christmases aren’t guaranteed. Life is short. Borders shut. Distance is cruel. The one thing we can cling to despite the space between us are those old, familiar stories. Each of us can call on the ghosts of Christmas Past to see us through.
Ironically, both my brother and I went on to play those same roles that I cast us in all those years ago. I landed the coveted lead role of Mary in our church nativity play when I was 10 years old. A few years later, in an abstract retelling of the Christmas story through the eyes of the animals in the stable, my brother played the donkey – much to our family’s amusement.
My brother will turn 21 this week – our shared childhood is coming to a close. But some things won’t change. Whether I’m living at home or not, I don’t think it will ever feel right to put my Christmas tree up or blast carols before his birthday. And it won’t really feel like Christmas without Mum or Dad reminding us of the legend of Mary and the donkey.
