I remember this day with absolute clarity. Our little premature baby was still in the NICU, and the medical team had decided to place a feeding tube as a precaution. The goal was simple and important: to help his weight continue to increase and make sure he was strong enough to come home. Even though I understood the reason, it was not part of the plan I had imagined for my baby boy.
Life in the NICU had become a constant cycle of pumping, nursing, pumping again, and then trying to sleep for 20 to 60 minutes before waking up and starting all over. It happened all day and all night. Between feedings, there were moments of holding him, watching every tiny movement, praying over every number, and worrying in the way only a mother can. His early delivery had been unexpected, and so were the setbacks that seemed to come one after another.
On this particular day, shortly after this photo was taken, I felt a powerful impression that the feeding tube needed to come out. It was not anger or fear. It was a deep, steady feeling from within me that something about the tube was holding him back. He had started to nurse less effectively, and I could not shake the thought that he needed to be given the chance to try without it.
I shared my concern with the head nurse. She strongly disagreed, and I understood why. The NICU is a place of caution, monitoring, and careful decisions. Still, I knew what I felt, so I waited for the pediatrician. Hours later, when he came in, I explained my concern again. He listened thoughtfully. Then he said the nurses would not be happy, but he felt I was right. He agreed to remove the feeding tube and monitor our baby closely for the next 24 hours.
Sure enough, it was as if our son had simply been waiting for that chance. He wanted his momma. Once the tube was removed, he began moving forward. That decision became part of his journey home.
I had already experienced motherhood twice before, but I never knew a baby could change my life in quite this way. This little boy was so tender, fragile, and new. Bringing him home right before Christmas changed the entire season for me. As I held my baby boy in my arms, I could not help thinking of another baby boy, the one at the center of Christmas.
Long ago, the world welcomed a baby boy whose birth also did not unfold in the way His mother may have first imagined. It was not the time, the place, or the delivery plan she likely expected. Yet I believe Mary must have felt sacred whisperings about her son, just as I felt quiet impressions about mine. Only Mary knows the fullness of the thoughts, feelings, and holy moments she carried in her heart, but that Christmas, I felt closer to her and to Him than I ever had before.
Every mother wants to lead, protect, and love her child. A mother wants to keep her baby safe from pain, danger, and sorrow. But Mary’s son was born for a purpose that would include suffering. He was born to die before His time, a death that was both undeserved and necessary, a death meant to save. Because of Him, I can hold my children close and tell them that no matter what happens, our family can be together forever.
Death may sting, but it will not conquer because of Him. That truth means more to me now than it ever did before. It means something different when I remember the NICU, the feeding tube, the prayers, the exhaustion, and the overwhelming love I felt for my premature baby boy.
This Christmas has felt different for me. But tonight, as I remember that Christmas years ago, I feel the warmth of it returning. I remember the fear, the faith, the tiny baby in my arms, and the quiet miracle of coming home. Suddenly, once again, it feels like Christmas in my heart.