My daughter stole baby Jesus.
She stole Him from our manger, and He lived with her for an entire Christmas season…mostly in her pocket.
Initially, I wanted that tiny, breakable baby back in the manager. I wanted Him somewhere safe and sound and protected by the wise men. I wanted Him next to that sorry-looking sheep whose ear was chipped off years ago. I thought baby Jesus should be returned to His manger because well, because that’s where Jesus belongs…in a manger. Right?
But, as time passed, and I found baby Jesus in my daughter’s bed, aboard the caboose of the Polar Express, and on the edge of the bathtub, I saw things differently.
See, I started thinking that Jesus was probably happy He was stolen.
Instead of being thought of when someone happened to glance at the Nativity Scene, He was carried around and spoken to often. He was a constant participant in the life of someone He loves. He felt important and special.
Isn’t it strange how much a tiny, stolen baby Jesus relates to our faith?
Sometimes we want Jesus in a safe, predictable place. We want Him at church, when we have time to spend with Him, or during the difficult situations, but I’m pretty sure if given the opportunity, He’d love to hang out in our pocket.