When I was six years old, my mother had a baby. I was convinced the baby's arrival would be the best day of my life. I wanted a baby sister so badly. I knew that this new baby sister would be the best companion, a constant outlet for me to show the world just how responsible I was. She would be adorable, and she would adore me.

Imagine my surprise when the child finally arrived—a tiny perfect baby BOY. Mind you, I already had a younger brother.

When my dad came to pick us up from school and take us to the hospital to meet this new “bundle of joy,” it was raining. Somehow, my dad had the forethought to take pictures of our responses to the news, (this was in the day of giant Minolta cameras you had to wear on a strap around your neck—not just something you could whip out of your pocket to snap a quick reaction). So somewhere in my boxes of keepsakes live two pictures: One of my brother, holding a frog he just caught, looking oh-so-joyful; and one of me, holding an umbrella, looking oh-so-annoyed.

Of course, all my disappointment vanished the moment I met my baby brother. I announced to my parents that he would be sleeping in my room. And eventually, they acquiesced to my demands.

Several weeks later, I saw pictures of my baby brother’s birth, taken with that same Minolta camera. And I was horrified! To my six-year-old eyes, it looked like a murder scene! He was covered in blood and slime, an awful blue-tinted umbilical cord was attached to his belly, and he was crying—screaming by the looks of his squinty eyes and wide-open mouth. What a scary mess it is to give birth!

And this is how God chooses to come into our world. This mess is how God chooses to love you and me and this whole messy world. Our God is a God who does not shy away from the mess, but literally enters into the mess.

Our God is a God who chooses not to squash the weak and the vulnerable, but chooses instead to become a weak and vulnerable child, nursing at his exhausted mother’s breast, in order to know-and-then-share the strength and power of love in a real and palpable and intimate way.

Every year, the idea of Jesus’s audacious entry into this world takes my breath away. It is simultaneously humbling and awe-inspiring to ponder, just as Mary pondered “all these things” in her heart. And, it gives me hope.

Not the kind of wistful misleading hope that comes from watching Instagram reels on how to create the perfect curtains from table-cloths, or from reading the latest self-help book, or from hearing your boss’s promise that next year will be the year you finally make partner, or from any given list of new year’s resolutions.

But the real, gritty hope of Jesus entering a messy world in a world of mess.

The real hope of a friend loving you from afar because that’s the only option after they've been deployed. It’s real and it’s hard.

The real hope of successfully co-parenting a child you love just as much as the former partner you once loved. It’s real and it’s hard.

The real hope of bravely facing death after a long battle with whatever it is attacking your body. It’s real and it’s hard.

When real hope is born, it’s born with stretch marks and labor pains and deep groaning and careful breathing.

Real hope doesn’t just fall in our laps, but is boldly pushed into this world with blood, sweat and tears.

And friends, no matter what hope you are birthing into this world, because hope is always waiting to be born, you are not alone. God is that ever-present midwife coaching you to breathe and push and breathe and push and breathe and push.

That coaching looks different for each of us. You might receive it through a prayer, a partner, a parent, a colleague, a teacher, a poem, a memory, an encouraging look, a hand-squeeze, a community of faith like this one right here. You are not alone. You are never alone.

The same God who chose to be born in the mess of childbirth begs to be born in your mess, too.

God longs to be with you: Immanuel, God with you, God with us.

The birth and life and death and resurrection of Jesus all point to the wild and wonderful truth that God loves you, God longs to be with you, and God will never leave you.

Be near us, Lord Jesus; we ask thee to stay

close by us for ever, and love us we pray.

Bless all these dear children of God in thy tender care

and fit us for heaven to live with thee there.

Amen. Merry Christmas.