Day 352: I left everyone hanging yesterday. I apologize. Let’s get right to the story...
Christmastime, 1987. I was huge with child. My first child. Our church had planned a Reader's Theater version of the Christmas Story, and I'd been assigned a part. I can still remember the feeling of trying to hoist my ampleness onto the tall stool where I would read my part, the voice of Mary. I had practiced my part, intent I not mess up the entire presentation. Mary's voice had been repeating in my head for all of December as I rehearsed her story. Her uncertainty. Her fear. Her first pregnancy. Her first baby. The wondrous circumstances of her situation. Her worry of traveling so close to her due date. The taxes. Her discomfort at riding a donkey such a long way. I thought of that donkey every time I propped myself up on that stool, and counted my blessings it was a stationary perch inside a nice warm church.
Two days after the performance, and only one week before Christmas Eve, I went into labor. I paced the floor of our basement house while a blizzard raged outside. When the contractions grew closer, my husband tucked me into our hand-me-down green Thunderbird and drove me to the hospital. The roads were treacherous, but I was just glad I wasn’t riding a donkey. I heard Mary's voice, reminding me to be grateful, for there was room for us in the maternity ward. No one turned us away.
After a short labor, our ten-pound five-ounce baby boy joined the world. There were no stable animals or hosts of angels or curious shepherds having abandoned their flocks. But the hospital waiting room was filled with our family members, waiting for the arrival of our first. Our first baby. Our first son.
Amidst our many baby preparations, we had made a stack of baby quilts, each tenderly stitched together in anticipation of the bundle of joy they would swaddle, but in the craziness of the blizzard, we ended up at the hospital without a single quilt. So, twenty-four hours after delivery, we were headed out into a blustery Idaho night, faced with our first parenting fail.
The nursery nurses were kind enough to give us some of their well-worn, threadbare blankets. Leftovers. Tatters. And I heard Mary's voice in my head, telling me to think of the stable and a manger filled with straw. Of the watching barn animals and the tatters she used to swaddle her child. So, I swallowed my pride, wrapped up my perfect little child in almost-rags, and pressed him between my husband and I to block out the frozen night. We took him home to our basement house, built a roaring fire in the fireplace to keep him warm, and marveled at the miracle that our Heavenly Father had entrusted us with one of his precious sons.
Blake became the holder of our firsts. First birth. First sleepless night. First crushing realization we had no idea what we were doing as parents. First to smile. First to giggle. First to walk. First to talk. First to ride a bike. First to go to school. First to date. First to fly the coop. First to find his soulmate and marry her. First to make us in-laws. First to make us grandparents, with a first son of his own. And then a second son. He was first to make me proud of the father he is. Of the way he parents.
Last year, he was the first in our family to have a third son, and last year, Blake and his wonderful wife, Amanda, were the first in our little family to lose a son, their infant son, just 90 minutes after his birth. Again, there were no barn animals. No curious shepherds. No banishing innkeepers. But there were definitely hosts of angels attending them in that hospital room in the middle of the night. So many, the spirit was tangible. Undeniable. And the 90 minutes Blake and Amanda spent swaddling their little baby boy were no less miraculous.
Yet, they left the hospital without a child to protect from the storm, and I heard Mary's voice, whispering that her Son had made it possible for them to hold their son one day, for all of eternity, and even though it would be hard to wait, the blessing was sure and he was theirs. Forever.
And now, there will be another son joining their family in the spring, when they weren’t sure if more children would be possible.
On Christmas Eve, we have a new tradition. We gather in the cemetery to light the grave of our grandson, who only barely touched down upon this world before he returned to the light of our Savior.
Do you see it? The light? Because of Mary's son, my son knows he will be with his son again.
This Christmas Eve, I will think of the night our Savior was wrapped in swaddling clothes and tucked into a manger of straw. I will think of the cold December night when we wrapped our newborn son in tatters and took him out into the blustery night to travel home. And I will think of our son's son, wrapped in our Savior's loving arms, warm and safe and loved, as we light the night with tiny flickers of remembrance.
And when I do, I will hear Mary's Son's voice saying suffer the little children to come unto me. I am the light of the world.
This season, think of your firsts. Think of Mary. Think of her Son, and rejoice in the gift He has given. For no matter how long or short our stay on earth may be, when it is time to return, He has paved our path to get there. He has sealed us into forever families, and He will be waiting, with arms outstretched, to wrap us in His perfect light and welcome us home to Him.
Happy birthday to Blake, our eldest son, the keeper of our firsts. And happy birthday to Mary's eldest son, the Keeper of Us All.
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