It was the Christmas season and Jack was five years old. A bright, precocious child, Jack struggled with social and emotional difficulties that would later be diagnosed as Asperger’s syndrome, anxiety, and ADHD. Because of this, my husband and I were attempting to instruct Jack in appropriate behavior and to instill in him a deeper sense of empathy for others.

That Christmas, our church had assembled a live nativity scene, complete with real animals, a young couple with their newborn baby, and a backdrop resembling a stable. They had also recreated the town of Bethlehem as it might have looked on the night of Jesus’ birth. Hearing that the church assembly hall had been transformed into Bethlehem, Jack begged me to take him to the evening’s festivities. I was hesitant, as Jack tended to become overwhelmed by the sensory input generated by large crowds. But he was determined to attend, so I agreed to take him. We arrived early that evening, hoping to be in and out before it got too crowded.

As we entered the church assembly room, Jack caught his breath in awe. The large room was filled with wooden stalls and bustling characters dressed appropriately for Bethlehem long ago. It seemed we had stepped back in time as we strolled through the busy scene. Each small area held an interactive activity true to the time period. Villagers in robes and sandals made candles, dyed cloth, and hand-ground grain for flour. Roman soldiers in their helmets, tunics, and scarlet cloaks patrolled the area. Sounds of joyous music filled the room as performers in colorful attire danced and sang to the rhythm of tambourines. Jack smiled as he was offered the opportunity to add his name to the census with a quill and ink, spin a dreidel, and help to weave a basket.

Perhaps the interaction was a little too real as Jack bounded ahead toward the inn where there was no room for Mary and Joseph to stay. A hurried innkeeper flew toward us, admonishing us, “Move along! There is no room in the inn. Move along!” She flapped her hands toward us in dismissal, and Jack doubled back toward me, tears forming in his eyes. He didn’t understand she was merely acting out a part in a scene. To him, everything here seemed acutely real. I comforted him and led him back to another activity. As we walked, we passed a man dressed in tattered robes. “Can you spare some bread for a beggar?” he asked us, his hands outstretched. Jack answered solemnly, “I’m sorry, I don’t have any bread, and I don’t have any money either.”

We engaged in a few more activities and then made our way to a corner where bakers were making traditional Jewish flatbread. The warm smell of fresh bread wafted toward us from a platter of flatbread recently baked over the fire outside the building. After showing us how to mix and roll out the dough, the baker took two pieces of baked flatbread from the platter and handed one to each of us. I smiled, waiting for Jack to taste the sample. But Jack had another idea.

“Oh, good!” he exclaimed. “Now I have some bread to give that man who was hungry.” My heart swelled with joy as Jack retraced his steps to the beggar and offered his piece of bread. The man smiled and graciously accepted it.

Soon afterward, we ended our tour of Bethlehem with the live nativity scene. As Jack stood staring solemnly at the tiny infant sleeping peacefully in Mary’s arms, I felt overwhelmed by God’s gift of grace to us on that first Christmas, a gift available to us even now. Jack may not have tasted the flatbread that night, but he did engage tangibly in the heart of Christmas—self-sacrificial love.