The laboring woman gave one final push and the baby made a grand entrance, announcing his evening arrival with a loud and lusty first cry. He was checked quickly by the doctor and nurses even though he appeared to be perfect, then was wiped clean, wrapped in a soft blue blanket and placed into his mother's waiting arms. His father had been attentive throughout the pregnancy, looking after his wife and anticipating with her the arrival of their first baby. These months had held more than a few setbacks and complications. Now he was one proud and grateful papa, amazed at the sight and size of his tiny new son.
The father moved to the head of the delivery table and began to wheel his wife and son into the corridor. But instead of taking the expected right turn toward the recovery room, he proceeded through the hospital hallways straight toward the infectious disease ward, and once there, moved from bed to bed, placing his tiny son into the arms of each person there. The startled patients were not used to having visitors in this depressing and unattractive place. It wasn't safe here.
No one could have anticipated this absurd scene. Yet, it really shouldn't strike us as odd or unfamiliar. After all, it's precisely the story we celebrate every Christmas. It was that special night when God the Father sent His Son here to planet earth, where there was not even one person who could be considered "well" in His eyes. All of us were deathly ill, trying to fight off with fleshly knowledge and sheer determination what we were not equipped to conquer. We had already been given the news and the report was not good. "It's terminal," they'd told us as gently as possible. We knew we were dying before they said the words. We could feel it. And then the Father brings His tiny Son here, right into the thick of the mess and says to each of us, "Would you like to hold the baby?" In our arms now was the miracle cure we were afraid would not come in time. But He has come. It is very good news.
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