Celebrating Two Births

Read on December 1 

Story provided by Lorraine

“And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the town of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child.” —Luke 2:4–5

On a cold, snowy Christmas Eve, Charlie realized his fourteenth child was about to be born. He sent one of his older children for the midwife while he stayed with his wife, Rosetta. This would be the first birth where Rosetta’s own mother would not be her midwife. With a cold Minnesota wind howling outside, Rosetta feared she might have to deliver this one on her own. 

Charlie and Rosetta’s fourteenth child, a little girl, was born on Christmas Eve. Lorraine was carefully wrapped in blankets and laid on a folded quilt in a dresser drawer. 

This year, Lorraine will be eighty-four years old. She is the last surviving child in her family.

Growing up, Christmas Eve always had a double significance for me. We celebrated the birth of two babies each year. 

Why? 

Because I am Lorraine’s middle daughter, Janet. 

I trace my faith back to the faith of my grandma. She had fourteen children, ten boys and four girls, and was adored by each of them.

I’m sure my grandma was praying to the Lord the night my mom was born. She didn’t have her mom with her like the other times, and she would certainly have called out to God for strength and peace.

Imagine how frightened Mary must have felt the day she departed for Bethlehem. She left everything she knew, and everyone she knew, except her husband, Joseph. Imagine how nervous Joseph felt, knowing his young wife was close to delivering the baby—God’s baby.

Nothing about their lives had been normal for many months. How many times did they remember and talk together about their angelic visits announcing the news about the baby? Mary was going to deliver God’s Son, who they would name Jesus, Yeshua, meaning “God is salvation.” 

In faith and with a great sense of calling, they put their possessions on the donkey and began their journey to Bethlehem.

Mary’s faith in God was the same faith my grandma would have turned to for her journey. 

The same faith, the same God, the same Yeshua. 

The Christmas story has always been a story of faith that continues through our own journeys each year.