Angela, The Baby Jesus and Me

When my mother, Angela, was six years old, she felt sorry for the

baby Jesus in the Christmas crib at St. Joseph's Church near School

House Lane where she lived. She thought the Baby Jesus was cold

and wondered why no one had put a blanket over his plump little

body. He looked happy enough, smiling up at his mother, the Virgin

Mary, and St. Joseph and the three shepherds carrying little lambs

all cozy in their fur. Even if he was cold he'd never complain because

the Baby Jesus would never want to make his mammy the slightest

bit unhappy.

.

from Angela and the Baby Jesus by Frank McCourt

illustration from the book by Raul Colon

.

My grandmother had a big cardboard box type pop-up nativity set

with a doll sized plastic baby Jesus, complete with permanent plastic

swaddling clothes and a sweet heavenly expression on his wee face.

The smell of the new plastic was intoxicating. I enjoyed seeing how

far I could toss Baby Jesus into the air and catch him, which usually,

I didn't. Grandma caught me once and scolded me for being

disrespectful. I remember gingerly putting him back into his crib of

straw, encased in a plastic bag, hoping God wasn't upset. I bought

myself a copy of Frank McCourt's lovely children's book last

Christmas because the story of his mother, Angela, and the baby

Jesus reminded me so much of my little four year old self.