the christmas story

Earlier today, I realized I was listening to “O Holy Night” on repeat. I always enjoy listening to Christmas music around the holidays, but it was strange for me to be so fixated on this song. It’s not happy, peppy, or heart warming, which is how I usually characterize the season. At the end of the song, I feel a sense of emotional release. I feel like I’ve let out a giant sigh. It got me thinking about the Christmas story. Even though I’ve heard the story at least 50 times in my young life, I haven’t spent much time actually thinking about it. It’s hard to take those words of something that happened so long ago and realize what was actually happening, so I decided to picture myself in Mary’s shoes.

I figure that I’m living in Massachusetts, dating some guy, let’s call him Joe, who grew up in Maine. All of a sudden, Paul LePage, the new Maine governor, decides that anyone born in Maine has to go to the state to prove that they exist. Joe and I have to gather up our donkey and walk to Maine because of this guy. And did I mention that I am nine months pregnant? Not only am I pregnant, but Joe isn’t even the father. Some angel appeared to me to tell me that I am pregnant with the son of God. The son of God?! Can you believe that? Well, I am having a hard enough time dealing with it myself without everyone else I know judging me for either being crazy or a slut.

So Joe and I show up in Portland and get counted, only to realize that it is too late to go back home that night. Just as we realize this, it starts to rain. So here I am, stuck in the middle of nowhere with my donkey, a husband who only half believes that I didn’t cheat on him to get pregnant, and I’m soaking wet. Since everyone else had to come from all across to state to prove to Mr. LePage that they exist, too, (and probably planned ahead and reserved a room at the local inns,) Joe and I can’t find a place to stay.

Trying to keep me dry, Joe decides to ask a local farmer that we pass if we can stay in his barn. Don’t get me wrong. I am pretty grateful to be dry, but I took one look around and realized this was not going to be an easy night. There was hay everywhere, mooing cows, baaing sheep, a chicken just ran across my foot, and don’t even get me started on the smell. As I turn to ask Joe how things could possibly get worse, my water breaks. It doesn’t matter anymore who the father of this baby is, all that matters is that I am about to give birth. In a barn.

The night was long and hard, but after hours of labor, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Joe was there to help me the whole way. At some point, I got used to the smell and my own moans drowned out those of the animals around me. The rain had stopped, and the sun was rising on a new day. I let out tears of joy at the same time that my baby cried that first time.

I look at Jesus and I looked at Joe. It doesn’t matter what happened the night before. It doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks about our baby. All that matters is that we made it. Looking at the two men in my life, I feel an overwhelming sense of love. It doesn’t matter if the love that created my baby is different from the love that creates every other baby in this world. Love is love.

I always get so hung up on the fact that this story has a happy ending. Mary has a healthy baby boy who goes on to become the King of the Jews. All these years I’ve been missing the real emotions behind the story, though. Mary and Joseph had a really hard life and Christmas Eve was anything but celebratory. Everything was up in the air, they were in a strange place, and everyone was doubting them. The story of Christmas, though, is their triumph over all those obstacles. The birth of Jesus is a huge, emotional release. It is only out of the lowest, hardest times that greatness can happen. Christmas is about going through a tough situation, having a little faith, and coming out better on the other side.