I’ve always been blessed to celebrate a three-day Christmas holiday. As a small girl, our family went to church on Christmas Eve, celebrating Christ’s birth with a candlelight service at St. John’s Lutheran Church in Marion. Presents and food galore followed on Christmas Day, and the day after, we celebrated my birthday. Yes, thanks to my dear mom and dad, I am a Christmas baby.
While some Christmas babies may bemoan the fact that their birthday falls near Christmas, I never felt slighted. My birthday day always found me opening yet more presents. My mom celebrated my birthday through the years with special parties where she encouraged me to invite school chums. It probably wasn’t exactly on my birthday, but very close, due to the fact that we had no school.
One year we played games where she had a box full of mismatched socks and given a time limit, were instructed to don as many socks as possible, on one foot. The winner was awarded a prize. Another game was how many Lifesavers a girl could transfer from her teammate to the next using a straw, again with a clicking timeclock.
I was in awe of my mom, a busy farm wife, who took the time out of the holiday season to bless her middle girl with a party. While not every year held a party, she’d made it up by making a special cake for me during our extended family Christmas gatherings.
Later, when I was in junior high, she let me have a sleepover. Because the cows were oblivious to special events that required extra attention, my parents still had to arise early in the mornings to tend to chores. My clueless girlfriends were unaware and rambunctious into the early-morning hours, giggling silliness from the living room to the kitchen. I vividly remember feeling terribly uncomfortable and guilt-ridden that we were keeping my parents awake. I never requested another high school party.
As I grew older, married and intensely desired children of my own, every birthday that passed and still not being a mom, was painful to me. Praying earnestly, my husband and I went off on every tangent possible, seeking infertility doctors for seven years until we got sick and tired of running to clinics and especially the last one, to a compassionate Asian doctor with a rolling accent who guaranteed “we get you pppregnan in tthhree month.”
Ya. Nope.
June 1986 before I turned 30 years old, my sisters and mom surprised me with a “twenty-nine-and-a-half-year” birthday party. They were being so kind, allowing me a celebration in the summer months, smack-dab in the middle of the year instead of at Christmas and even gave me a summer present of shorts and a sweet matching top. I didn’t want to even think of being close to 30 - still not being a mom!
Unbeknownst to them, and plastering a smile on my face while swallowing tears, I crumbled like a cookie on the solo ride home, not wanting to spoil their beautiful, well-meant surprise. It wasn’t until later, when I joyfully became a mom of three at 31, 33 and 38 years, respectfully, did I confess to my beloveds that I was holding hurt inside. They hugged me, apologizing while totally understanding. I love my family.
Since being married and with a family of my own, three-day celebrations continue.
Blatantly spoiled on the day after Christmas, I’ve always been taken out to eat and if husband is feeling especially generous, treating me to a movie. (He hates movies, I love them.) Always, always, more presents while sipping my morning coffee. Also, he makes breakfast; the best eggs I’ve ever eaten (wink wink).
On my 40th birthday, my husband rented a stretch black limo, taking me completely by surprise. It pulled up, I was speechless. My sister and brother-in-law joined in; we were just going out to eat at a fancy restaurant – or so I thought. I’d never felt so pampered.
While all these earthly celebrations are tender and sweet, nothing compares to the celebration of Christ’s birthday in a stable in Bethlehem. I had the amazing privilege in February of this year of walking where he walked. Among many other experiences, we were able to literally witness shepherds tending their sheep on the grassy slopes of Bethlehem, and crouching down, walking into a sheep pen where they bedded them for the night.
Reading the Gospel accounts of the birth of Jesus after treading that holy ground myself makes the Bible come alive to me in a way that I didn’t experience before making the trip to Israel.
God our Father is so incredibly kind and detailed in the way he put his story together – sending his Son as a babe in the manger, Jesus lived a sinless life, was willingly crucified on a cross for our sins and rose again. God promised to direct his Son to come once more, putting things right and taking believers home. This life-giving Gospel, this blessed hope we Christians share – now that’s something to celebrate!
Merry Christmas!
(“Now this is eternal life: that they know You, the only true God and Jesus Christ, Whom You have sent. John 17:3)
Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.
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