I think there is something very special about being pregnant at Christmas. In December 1981 as I was nearing my due date with my first child, I was awed by all I was feeling and experiencing. I felt a very special empathy for young Mary so many years before making the long, arduous donkey ride to Bethlehem, and once there, giving birth in a stable. She had only a manger bed for her baby, and she had already faced months of gossip and rumors. It was hard for me to imagine how she could have tolerated the pain, fatigue and humble circumstances in which she found herself. Goodness knows I was finding it difficult enough to endure a short car ride with my growing heaviness.
Of course, the circumstances for the birth of my son would be very different from those of Mary. Arrangements were already in place at one of Atlanta’s finest hospitals. We just had to arrive when the time came and be shown to our room. I had received months of prenatal care. This baby had already been “showered” with love and an abundance of gifts from our family, friends and church….so many gifts for such a small baby not even here yet.
The nursery was all in place….a compilation of love by our family and best friends which included a master carpenter and an excellent seamstress. These friends were so eager to use their talents to help prepare for this small one yet unborn. The crib stood ready, also a product of love given to me by my grandfather at my birth twenty-three years earlier. All was ready and prepared. We now waited eagerly for this new life to emerge.
During these last few weeks of waiting, I entered December both eager and pensive. I busied myself with church activities and decorating our small apartment for the holidays. Being due on December 27th, I could not help thinking how exciting a Christmas morning baby would be. I also spent time pondering the very similarities and contrasts I have mentioned to the birth in Bethlehem.
I was overwhelmed with gratitude at all the blessings we had been given. It became a strong desire in my heart to give something that Christmas in honor of the Baby Jesus and for another child who had not come into the world as materially blessed as my baby was. I began to pray during my devotional time that God would show me where the baby was that I needed to help.
A few days into December, I was put in charge of finding a family for our ladies’ group at church to sponsor for Christmas. It was with great excitement that I called Family and Children’s Services on behalf of our group to ask for an assignment. A grateful counselor assured me I would hear back from her very soon.
Fortunately, the eagerly awaited call was not long in coming. I can still feel the excitement I felt as I stood in my kitchen with pen in hand waiting for the list of names, sizes and ages. The counselor began by saying this was a large family….six children eight years old and under. With each name and age, I could feel the anticipation build. Tommy, the oldest age eight. Jeremy next, age six. Susan, age 4. I found myself mentally counting down to see how many children were left. Surely this was going to be where I would find the baby I had prayed for. Helen, age three was next. Billy, age two….and finally the words I was waiting for,
“And last, but not least, we have a baby, Ellen five months.” I could scarcely contain my joy! As I called to tell the other members of our group the news, I quickly said with each call, “Don’t forget, I’ll take the baby, Ellen is mine!”
Over the next few days, I began to gather things for Ellen. I wanted to give some of the over-abundance my own baby had received, so I chose some warm things from the waiting stacks in my nursery, and I searched the local stores as well.
As the days went by and our group members completed their preparations for the child they had received, we set the date we would make the delivery to the family. I was now only two weeks away from my due date and growing heavier by the day.
The night we had chosen arrived clear and bitter cold. The sky was a canopy of stars as we drove out of town and into the country. We arrived at the address we had been given which was a small house in very bad repair. We were greeted by a large dog barking loudly. We advanced to the front porch and found it very difficult to find a place where the floorboards were solid enough to walk. My husband and one of the other men had to assist me over the broken places.
Our knock was answered by a quiet woman who anxiously ushered us in. The house was small and quite filled with an assortment of furniture and belongings. It was very cold inside as well as out. The curtains in the living room billowed with each gust of the night wind. It was plain to see that there was little insulation or heat in the house.
Gradually, curious little ones began to venture out. As we were introduced to them one by one, I began to almost ache to finally meet my Ellen. At last, the mother said, “and Ellen is in the cradle.”
I walked over and barely peering out from under a mound of blankets was Ellen. My eyes and my heart filled as I touched her little cheek, so soft, yet so cold. I quickly accepted the invitation to hold her. I hoped so much for this little one as I held her in my arms. It was clear the realities of life were not going to be easy for this child.
In this small house and this small babe, I saw so many similarities to that night so long ago in Bethlehem. The harsh cold penetrating the inadequate shelter, the star-filled sky just outside, this small one who had been born into very humble circumstances, yet in reality was a child of the King.
It was so difficult to put her back into her cradle and leave; I knew I would leave a piece of my heart there with Ellen. The men of our church returned later to make whatever improvements they could, including some plastic for the windows to hold back the cold wind.
A couple of weeks later my son was born, and I became typically and wonderfully engrossed in finally having him with us. We moved to another town a few months later and I never saw Ellen again.
As the years pass and each December rolls around, my thoughts and my heart go back to that special time. I remember the wonderful gift of being able to relate so personally with Mary and with a small baby, not in manger hay, but in a cold cradle in a sometimes cold world.
As I watch my son growing now into more man and less boy, I stop and think of Ellen. I wonder what her circumstances are now, and I say a prayer for her. That piece of my heart that I left with her all those years ago is still firmly attached.
