So, I was on the way to the hospital to have the Christmas baby I had always avoided.
Between contractions, I lamented the lameness: the 23rd, really? I mean, if we’re going to do this, let’s actually make it Christmas Day. Or at least Christmas Eve.
Nope. Our little Buckaroo was born a hour and a half shy of a more impressive-sounding birthday. And we spent the next three days in the hospital because he had a small lung issue, which meant that big sister spent Christmas with friends–that we had just met.
But, you know what?
It was all ok.
Not what I would ever have chosen, but all ok. The family who kept Bun was amazing, so kind and generous. Bless their hearts, they even gave her small Christmas presents.
Christmas in the hospital, while always a bleak prospect in my mind, was actually kind of quiet and peaceful. It was just Hubs, me, and our little boy. No cooking or unpacking. A bit of a respite, in a way.
Between the Hubs’s double foot surgery, (oh, didn’t I mention that he was hobbling around L & D with two foot braces on?) holiday travels, and the early arrival of our son, my best laid plans to find friends willing to feed us had gone awry.
But God provided. On the way home from the hospital, in the middle of Hubs suggesting he buy giant pot pies from Sam’s Club, a sweet friend from Texas called and offered to organize a Care Calendar for Dallas friends to order food from local places and have it delivered (?!).
Our families were also able to come stay sooner and for longer periods than we’d planned, which was incredibly helpful. Even the one church we’d visited before Buckaroo came emailed, offering to bring meals. We were abundantly taken care of.
Even the timing of Buck’s birth turned out to have providential implications. Because I was going to be 37 weeks pregnant on the 24th, and he was born at 10:30pm on the 23rd, he was technically considered a preemie.
So, with that designation came a few standard tests, including putting him in a car seat and monitoring his oxygen levels.
His levels plummeted and he turned purple.
Evidently, his little lungs weren’t quite strong enough to support breathing well in a car seat. A “car bed” alternative would solve the problem until he got a bit older.
But, I still get a chill when I think of what might have happened had he been born on a cooler-sounding day. The nurses wouldn’t have tested him. We would have put him in our regular car seat and he may or may not have been able to breathe well. We may or may not have noticed.
His birthday–and God’s timing–was perfect.
And the moral of the story?
I don’t know what’s best for me. God does.
In this case, it was best for me to learn that He is able to provide even in the midst of having a preemie Christmas baby three weeks after moving to a new town.
And that a baby, regardless of timing, is never anything but a gift.