It was Christmas Eve, 1991, and I was great with child. So great, in fact, I could no longer sleep on my back as the weight of baby number three caused a constant and frustrating shortness of breath, necessitating that I surround myself with pillows and sleep only on my side.
That morning I became increasingly aware of a familiar old feeling that had twice before produced miraculous human beings.
But he’s not due for another eight days, I thought to myself.
Slipping out of bed as gracefully as a woman experiencing her 39th week of pregnancy can move, I began my pre-delivery ritual. I wanted to come home to a neat house. I also knew that if my labor was to progress, moving around would help.
Suddenly the Christmas story came alive. I had a home to pick up, thankfully. I could not, however, imagine what Mary, mother to Jesus, faced as her labor began. She was but a young girl and far from home, having endured a long journey so she and her husband could be counted in a census. So great was the influx of people that she and young Joseph would have to settle into a stable to labor with their first child on their own.
While I labored I prayed and cleaned. Two hours later my husband and I were winging down the highway on our way to the hospital.
“Are you OK?” my husband would ask each time my puffing intensified. “I’m OK,” I would reply as the labor subsided a bit.
I knew what awaited me. It was time to dig deep into my reserves, to draw on patience and strength, endurance and good humor. So I puffed and prayed, concentrating on the joy I anticipated experiencing when the doctor would hand me this surprise Christmas Eve present.
Christmas Eve has always been special to me. My very first memory involves sitting in a church pew between my parents, holding a lit candle and watching a nativity re-creation. A young mother in the congregation had volunteered to play the role of Mary and that image of her walking down the aisle, holding her newborn son, is seared into my mind.
My next memories pick up when I was a teenager. I had been dating a great young guy named Matt and he had invited my family and me to his house for Christmas Eve dinner. There, among the swarms of aunts, uncles, cousins and family friends, we took our place at the longest table I had ever seen. Decorated with candles, Christmas greenery, crystal, china, and silver, I realized how much I enjoyed large gatherings.
Christmas Eve, 1979, was the year I arrived early to church because that same young man, now a college student, was scheduled to work as a greeter and I wanted to sit with him when the service began. As I sat in the pew, listening to the musicians rehearse one last time, he thrust a small box into my hand. A look inside revealed an engagement ring and wedding band. A whispered, “Will you marry me?” and an emotion-filled, “Of course, I will!” started an evening never to be forgotten.
It is this rich personal history and the memory of the obstetrician handing Matt and me a healthy, 9 1/2 pound baby boy at 6:36 a.m., Christmas Eve morning of 1991, that fills my heart today as I anticipate celebrating Daniel’s 18th birthday next week. That he will move away to college next fall is a story for another day. For now, it’s celebration time. He’s our family’s all-time favorite Christmas gift.
This Christmas, I wish you love, food and faith. And may the gift of the season —- joy! — bring a smile to your face, a tear to your eye, and a hug for someone near you today.
