pregA young boy sneaks and sees a woman giving birth. His father, Gwilym Morgan, reprimands him by telling him to forget it, to leave it. And then, he says this:

“There is no room for pride in any man. There is no room for unkindness. There is no room for wit at the expense of others. All men are born the same, and equal. As you saw today, so come the Captains and the Kings and the Tinkers and the Tailors.”*

Like Sarah said, I can’t help but try to find myself in the nativity, that story of stories. Last year on Christmas Eve I was nine months pregnant. I wondered how Mary’s lower back felt and if she had a hard time breathing. Never before had I cared so much that the road to Bethlehem might have been bumpy. This year I am wondering how old Jesus was when he took his first step.

Tonight, the association I find myself coddling is the one described by Gwilym Morgan. There is something about the Son of God coming to earth in the same physical way that the rest of came to earth that moves me. I think it makes the story and its hero more accessible.

“Be ye perfect,” he said. “Even as I am.” It’s a daunting summons. But less daunting, I think, when I remember that Mary gave birth.  I like that.

*From How Green Was My Valley, by Richard Llewellyn.

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