marrion8955@yahoo.com

Three weeks ago today I was present at the birth of my first grandson. Because his daddy is in the Air Force and deployed to Iraq and my middle daughter was about to bear their first child, I traveled to be with her and help out for that first week.

Everyone knew he was arriving; it’s just that no one knew exactly when. Many preparations had been made—a bassinet, blankets, diapers, and, I believe, more clothing than even I own. His name had already been chosen, his football team picked, and his nursery painted in the team colors. Numerous gifts had been given, toys and books gathered, decorations for the room hung, all in anticipation of the big day.

A couple of mornings after my arrival at around 3:15 a.m., my daughter called out that she needed me. It became obvious that it was time, so we took my daughter to the hospital where they were waiting for her. The paperwork had been completed. The room was organized, the sheets clean, and the tiny bassinet ready to receive the new baby. The nurses and doctors were all on duty, available to come at a moment’s notice to assist in the delivery. Throughout the next 24 hours, the gracious staff worked with my daughter, her labor coach and us (the grandparents) every step of the way right up until the moment of his much-anticipated arrival.

In Bethlehem 2,000 years ago, they knew he was coming, but not exactly when. He had a name, but his grandma probably wasn’t there to help out. The beautiful clean hospital, the gentle doctor and the efficient nurses weren’t present to ease his arrival. No medication was available to help ease the labor, no heat, no lights, no medical equipment to assure His survival.

This little one born so long ago didn’t have the soft blankets, the handmade afghan or the cute outfits like my grandson did. Nor did He have the wonderful warming bed, heat lights, or His cord cut by his nervous grandpa. His grandma didn’t give the first soothing bath softly talking to Him about what God had in store for Him and praying blessing over Him as she gently washed Him all over.

My grandson was completely unaware of the love surrounding him as he came into the world, the anxious phone calls from Daddy in Iraq, the concerned looks of the medical staff in the last moments before his birth, and the relief of great-grandma and great-grandpa and aunts and uncles as the news spread at home in that midnight hour. No, Baby Jesus’ arrival was far different than what we experience today with the arrivals of the newest members of our families.

Probably born somewhere in a dark cave or hollowed out place where animals were kept, we don’t know who attended His birth. Perhaps it was only His father or maybe a midwife hurriedly called from somewhere in Bethlehem. As the young mother struggled and labored to push the child from her body, no one really knew the intricacies of birth as they do now. Yet, Joseph watched God’s Son, entrusted to his care, be born in that dark stable where no one was on standby to take life-saving measures if necessary, no soft fleece blankets awaited the tiny body, no warming lights or any other of our modern day preparations for this precious one had been made.

Yet His life had been foretold hundreds of years before by prophets of old, preserved in writing, and handed down from generation from generation. He had been awaited for hundreds of years, anticipated, hoped for, wanted and eagerly searched for. An entire nation awaited Him with hope and expectation, anticipating His majestic arrival. But He didn’t arrive when and how they expected—no preparations were made, no special gifts or celebrations were arranged.

It’s similar, in a way, to how my grandson arrived. We had to reschedule my plane ticket because he arrived early. It would have been nice had he allowed Grandma a full night of rest instead of only 4 hours in 48! We didn’t know the time, the day, if there would be any complications, or difficulties with his birth. But when he did arrive, we were rejoicing with tears and laughter. Our hearts were filled with awe at the miracle of God as we heard his first cry, gazed in awe at his head full of dark curls, and studied his tiny face looking for similarities to his family.

It’s a family tradition that my dad counts each new baby’s fingers and toes. The new mommy knows that Grandpa is going to unwrap the baby and count! Do you think that perhaps Joseph trembled with wonder that night as he saw the tiny fingers and toes? Do you ever imagine the sound of his son’s cries rang in his ears along with the lowing of the cattle or bleating of sheep? Can you see Joseph hurrying around to assure as much warmth as possible for his weary wife and tiny son in that cold night air? Did Joseph’s eyes blur with tears from weariness and wonder at the sight of the baby swaddled tightly and closely held to his mother’s skin?

When my little grandson arrived home, we wrapped him tightly in his receiving blanket because he would immediately settle down and fall asleep, especially if he was on your chest and could hear your heart beating. Imagine the tiny Savior on His earthly daddy’s chest, hearing his heartbeat, and sleeping so soundly. Can you see Him there? Can you see His mother reaching for Him when He loudly let them know He was hungry? My little grandson was quite clear about his needs very early, and it is certain that the Savior communicated those needs as well.

At His arrival, the angels shouted for joy. The heavens were filled and the skies danced with rejoicing heavenly host. In that delivery room, I wanted to shout for joy! I wept tears of relief, rejoicing, weariness, and thankfulness. He made me rejoice because of what He had done. The works of His Hands are marvelous! To see the birth of this little one, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh is cause for wild dancing, singing, shouting, praising and more. It felt as though my soul could not contain the joy He had given me in the form of this little one.

Even more, as we celebrate the birth of The King, we can shout for joy! The works of His Hands are incredible, mighty and beyond our finite understanding. Christmas is a time to commemorate His Birth, to remember His Choice to come to save us by becoming human and living among us and to honor His Life, Death and Resurrection. Shout for joy!

Copyright 2006 by Desiree L.M. Pheister

Desirée L.M. Pheister is a wife, mother, and grandmother. In her spare time, she enjoys writing, needlework and looking for ways to bless others. You may reach her at: marrion8955@yahoo.com