I was hunting for presents. It was Christmastime, I was 10 years old, and this was a serious mission. The first point of attack was always the attic; in my family's old and massive sea captain's house, this space was surprisingly small — and was jam-packed with boxes and bags, Christmas lights and Easter baskets, abandoned lamps and some "vintage" clothing better left forgotten. Because it was dark, creaky and isolated from the rest of the house, it was a bit scary, and I didn't venture up here often. But it was worth it this time of year — I had been pleading and nagging my parents, not to mention Santa, for a boat-load of Star Wars toys, and the big day was fast approaching.

The hunt could not be denied; the smell of victory was in the air; the mother-load was at hand.

It was vital to be quiet as possible, so that I wouldn't be discovered; I quickly set about moving boxes from here to there, searching out every dark corner that looked hopeful, studying plastic bags to see if they had that "Yes, I am concealing vast amounts of Christmas presents" look. Failure … but then, I came across a worn, tattered gold-painted carton, not much bigger than a shoe box.

No Star Wars insignia, too small to hold a light saber, but I was drawn in. There was something familiar and sweet about it. In fact, it was the most familiar and sweet of all — a small Creche (Nativity scene) that had belonged to my grandparents, "Memere and Pepere" in their native French-Canadian tongue. They had each been gone, now, for a few years, and this special pearl from their supply of Christmas decorations had made its way into my Mother's hands. It must have been 30 or so years old; the painted plastic Magi were worn, now, and a few of the lambs and donkeys were missing tails and ears.

I turned it over to the bottom — not knowing how I knew but still knowing — and searched for the familiar knob. I began to wind. When I let go, instant magic. "Silent Night" filled the cramped space with sweet music; though the motor labored with age, the delicate melody filled me with real joy. Golden, green and blue stars made their way purposefully around the Child — his tiny arms reached toward his adoring, holy Mother. The miniature shepherd boys peaked over the wicker cradle to look upon the King of Kings. All was calm and quiet.

And then tears came — why, I'm not sure. Something about that scene hit me; gentle memories swept in, and I was somewhere else: a Christmas from another time. I was there, somehow, in the parlor of my grandparents' simple, cozy home. The windows were frosted with ice. The darkened room was only illumined by the Sears & Roebuck artificial tree and the glowing starlight of this tiny treasure. The old-fashioned oil radiators sputtered steam and clanked away, fighting the chill. My chin was planted on the table where the Creche lay, entranced by the tiny Babe — just like now — and I couldn't take my eyes away. Then I felt, again, the gentle hand on my shoulder … a little squeeze from my Memere and a piece of candy softly pressed into my hand.

At that moment, I missed my grandparents more than I had ever missed them before. I hadn't felt this way in a long time. I sat there on the floor for a while, not knowing quite what to do. Finally, I gently placed the Creche back in its box, re-sealed the tape as best as possible, and placed it where I had found it to await our annual family Christmas decorating party. I put everything else back, too, and quietly came down the steep stairs of the attic — I didn't feel like present-hunting anymore.

I could wait for my presents, now. They didn't matter so much anymore. I felt warm; I felt protected; I felt the love of my grandparents in my heart. Christmas was bigger than my little attic hunt.

On that day, around 25 years ago, I was looking for one thing and found something else. I pray the same happens to you.