Let’s see, I began thinking in the dark, as I lay there contemplating my Christmas To Do list:

The turkey should go into the oven at 11 a.m., the girls can get the table decorated and I really should have Mom and Dad pick up some fresh whipping cream on their way over this afternoon. And boy, am I uncomfortable this morning!

It was Christmas Eve, 1991, and I was great with child. So great, in fact, that I could no longer sleep on my back for the weight of baby number three caused a constant and annoying shortness of breath.

As I lay there mentally composing my plans for the day, I became increasingly aware of a familiar old feeling, a feeling that had twice before produced walking, talking miracles.

I slipped out of bed as gracefully as a woman in her 39th week of pregnancy can move and began my predelivary ritual. My thinking was clear: I wanted to come home to a reasonably picked up house and if this labor was to progress, my activity would surely help it along.

And I was right. Two hours later my husband and I were winging it down the highway on our way to the hospital. The doctor was a good 40 minutes away and the distance, coupled with the intensity of my labor and my comments regarding the huge number of annoying bumps in the road, was causing my driver to put the pedal to the metal with greater urgency than normal.

“Are you OK?” my husband would ask each time my puffing intensified.

“I’m OK,” I would reply as the labor subsided a bit.

“And are we having fun yet?” he would tease. I managed a few smiles in return.

I knew what awaited me. I knew it was time to dig down deep into my reserves. I knew my patience, strength and good humor were needed as never before. So I puffed and prayed, concentrating on the joy I imagined feeling when the doctor would hand me this surprise Christmas Eve present — who was really supposed to be a gift for the new year.

Christmas Eve has always been special to me. My very first memory involves sitting in a church pew between my parents, holding a lit candle and watching a nativity re-creation. A young mother in the congregation had volunteered to play the role of Mary and I will never forget the image of her walking down the aisle, holding her real-life newborn son. It looked like the real thing to me.

My next memories pick up when I was a teenager. I had met this great young guy named Matt and he had invited my family and me up to his house for Christmas Eve dinner. There among the swarms of aunts, uncles, cousins and family friends, we took our place at the longest table I had ever seen. Decked in candles, Christmas greenery, crystal, china, silver and mounds of food, I began to see what a family’s faith can do: it can unite people, giving them solidarity, pleasure, comfort and strength.

Christmas Eve, 1979, was the year I went early to church because that same young man, now a college student, was scheduled to usher. As I sat in the pew, listening to the harpist get in one last rehearsal, I felt a small box being thrust into my hand. A look inside revealed an engagement ring and a wedding band. A whispered, “Will you marry me?” and a tearful, ”Of course I will!” started an evening never to be forgotten.

It is this rich personal history, and the memory of the obstetrician handing us a nine-and-a-half pound baby boy, that fills my heart as I survey the sight at my home today. Take-and-bake pizzas, sleeping bags, munchies, CDs and videos remind me that my Christmas Eve baby is now a cool 10-year-old boy who has blessed our lives with more smiles and love than we could have ever imagined a son could provide. It will be a noisy, late-night celebration, with midnight raids to the fridge and laughter. But I would not have it any other way. For it is not the perfection of a holiday house that fills our hearts. It is the people and the experiences they bring. It is also the memories, the love, the food and the faith that binds it all together.

May such gifts of the season bring a smile to your face, a tear to your eye and a hug from someone near to you today.

Joan Bay Klope is a freelance writer and former editor of Christian books. Contact her at jbklope@hotmail.com.