It’s interesting that in all of Scripture, in all there is about the life of Jesus, the story of His conception and birth is so short. Every Christmas, when we tell the story, we must draw it out, and go into incredible amounts of detail. It’s wild to me that we’re just supposed to quickly glaze over the fact that Jesus was born, to a virgin woman, after thousands of years of prophecy. In the telling of the story in the Bible it just…happens.
Having recently gained a son of my own, I now see this story in a different light, however; mostly for what’s not told. We don’t hear about any of the times that Mary had to support the head of Jesus, because his neck wasn’t strong enough. We don’t hear about the breastfeeding, the diaper changes, the sleepless nights, the emotional (and physical toll) that it takes on the parents, the gifting of onesies and cute little boots from friends and relatives, etc. While I now think of those things, and wonder why they aren’t there, I also wonder if they matter.
I think the grandest story there is, the story of Jesus, has to begin somewhere. While it really begins with Creation, the Fall, and onward from there, the rubber really meets the road in the beginning of the Gospels. We put a lot of stock in the Christmas story, sometimes to my chagrin, but I think it’s important to celebrate the physical coming of our Saviour. It’s the continuation of a story that was years in the making, and a story that we will continue to hold dearly for years to come.
So, here’s to Jesus. Here’s to His virgin birth. Here’s to the birth of our Saviour. Here’s to the life He lived. Here’s to the death He died. Here’s to the resurrected life. Here’s to all the things we wish that we knew about Him. Here’s to the things that we do know about Him. Here’s to Christmas.