My presence at the birth was completely unexpected.
In the giddy yet seemingly endless days leading to the birth of our first grandchild on Nov. 9, our daughter, Elizabeth, and I talked about everything under the sun. Whether I had stretch marks after pregnancy. Who would drive her to the hospital when her labor pains began. Who would walk the dogs while she was in the hospital. How much paternity leave would her husband, Ryan, get. When could her father, John, and I share the news on Facebook.
Christmas recalls memories of home. Times full of awe as family gathers around wood-burning fires and glistering lit trees. A place of comfort and room at the table for everyone.
The story of Jesus’ birth reminds us of home, too. It is a story of a young family on the road, away from familiar comforts. An unwed couple needing a safe place to spend the night as they welcome a child into their lives. I imagine the first Christmas felt chaotic as the young couple wandered through the desert longing for home.
I’ve been listening for the voice of God in a new way lately, not as the cry of the baby Jesus tossing and turning in a manger, but as our pre-risen Lord and Savior dying on a cross.
