Guest Post: A Nativity Reclaimed — Navigating Faith, Family, and Change
by Ginger Hanson
Creating Christmas is often a mother’s role. Although it’s a lot of work, I look forward to many aspects of this tradition. One element I particularly enjoy is the nostalgia and stirring of memories that come with handling decorations I only see once a year.
This year, as I went through the familiar routine of retrieving the boxes from the back of the storage closet, my hands landed on the oldest box. I recognized it by feel alone. The cardboard was fragile and limp from years of opening and closing. I drew it to my body and inhaled, it smelled intimately familiar, like old newspapers. I had inherited the box when I married. Inside was a hand-painted nativity set crafted by my mother, who passed away when I was just 4 years old. It was one of the few possessions I had that connected me to her memory. Setting out this treasure was always my favorite part of the decorating process.
This year, however, the moment I laid my hands on that box, I was confronted with the painful reality that this artifact had become complicated for me.
I’ve long had a complex and nuanced relationship with my faith. But I had consciously evaluated the pros and cons of remaining an active participant and I decided that I wanted to stay fully engaged. Over the decades, I’ve held many callings, devoting countless hours to magnifying them with the greatest care and responsibility. Being a Latter-day Saint was one of the deepest parts of my identity, something I treasured because it connected me with my family and ancestors.
In recent years, however, my relationship with my faith had grown more complicated. One of my children had come out as transgender, and despite my continued desire to participate in my faith community, my child’s well-being was what was most important to me. Participating fully in church activities began to negatively affect my child’s well-being, and my family and I were actively navigating how best to balance church participation with ensuring my child’s happiness and health.
Then, in August 2024, the church implemented the transgender policy of exclusion. According to the policy, my child could no longer be allowed to use the bathroom in a church building without having someone check it first and stand outside to ensure no one else entered while my child was inside. My child would no longer be allowed to attend overnight activities such as camp, trek, or FSY like their peers. They would need to be escorted off the premises each night and stay with me or their father at our own expense. Church records would need to reflect my child’s birth name and gender, despite those being legally changed, and many people only knowing my child by their current name and gender. Additionally, my child would not be allowed to serve in gender-specific callings, or in any teaching, or child-related role, which make up the majority of callings within the church. The stipulation that transgender individuals cannot work with children specifically was hurtful as it reflects a long-held prejudice—that LGBTQ+ people are sexual predators. This policy sent a clear message to my child and our family: we were no longer welcome or even acceptable in our church community. After years of dedicated service to the church, I felt a deep sense of betrayal. My child was being treated as a leper. I could no longer attend an institution that was actively sending such a harmful message to my child and other transgender individuals.
One by one, I carried each box of Christmas decorations up from the basement and stacked them in the living room. The last box was the tattered one containing my mother’s nativity. I hesitated. Should I even bring it upstairs? Did I want to display it? Would looking at it every day bring me joy, or would it be a painful reminder of the rejection we had felt from our faith community? I decided to delay the decision. I would bring the box upstairs and perhaps, through the ritual of setting out the decorations, an answer would come to me.
One by one, I opened the boxes and carefully placed each item in its traditional spot, contemplating its meaning. At last, all the decorations were set out—except for the nativity. I glanced at the empty space atop the entertainment center. This central spot was typically reserved for the nativity, a treasured reminder to be centered on the example of Christ. I burst into tears and collapsed on the couch, overwhelmed with emotion. It was clear that, for now, displaying the nativity was not a source of joy for me. Still conflicted, I pushed the box under the table and distracted myself with another task.
For the next few days, whenever my mind was unoccupied, I wrestled with whether my mother’s nativity could still be a part of my Christmas. Would the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints ever be part of my life again? Had it ever really stopped being a part of my life? Did I still value the example of Jesus? Did I still want Jesus to be a part of my spiritual life? These are complicated questions, and I haven’t arrived at a satisfying answer yet. But eventually, I realized that what I truly valued was my mother’s legacy and her place in my life. I didn’t want this hurtful policy to take anything else precious from me.
I opened the box and began setting out the pieces, taking in the craftsmanship of each piece and imagining my mother’s hand painting them. Looking at it now, I feel empowered by this choice. It’s a symbol of what I can hold on to, something I’ve chosen to keep, despite the pain of what I have had to let go.
Ginger Hanson is a wife, mother, runner, cyclist. She has a PhD in Industrial/Organizational psychology, and is an Associate Professor at the Johns Hopkins School of Nursing were she is a biostatistician on many research projects, and teaches research method and statistics.
