One of the things that I appreciate about being a Catholic is the church’s cyclical calendar. Right now, like every year, we’re at the end of the season of Advent, a time of preparation for the miraculous birth of God-made-flesh in the form of a baby.

Thirty-five years ago, Pepper and I were looking forward to our first Christmas together as wife and husband, and to the imminent birth of our first child. Gabriel Ryan arrived just 26 hours before Christmas, and was greeted by his exhausted, elated parents and three midwives in our modest apartment in Ashland.

Barely a day later, Gabriel attended his first Midnight Mass, and his poor mama said afterwards that a pew never felt so hard. But our joy and pride alleviated some of Pepper’s discomfort, as did the warmth and delight of the congregation as they welcomed our fledgling family at such a perfect moment.

The next morning, however, nothing seemed quite so rosy. Gabe and his mama hadn’t figured out how to nurse yet, and he seemed listless. He had a little infection around his belly button, and a small hematoma on the crown of his head. So Pepper wisely insisted that we go to the emergency room, and I went outside to start our funky Fiat.

After multiple tries, countless cuss words, and a quarter mile of unsuccessful efforts to roll-start the weary steed down a gentle hill, I jogged back up to our apartment. A call to an understanding friend brought us a glimmer of hope and a quick ride to the hospital, where our good buddy Pat stayed with us to make sure that we would be okay.

Within a short time, things began looking up again. The doctor gave Gabe a little sugar water in his bottle, and once Gabe got the hang of sucking on that, he soon figured out that things worked pretty much the same way with his mama. We received a mild scolding not to treat Gabe’s navel by applying oil, and the doctor assured us that the hematoma was not a cause for our concern.

Pat drove us back to our apartment, where Pepper and I felt 100% appreciative and relieved. If I recall correctly, I think the Fiat even started later that day, and the hospital went easy on us for the ER visit.

I look back on those days now, and I shake my head in amazement. Pepper and I had barely a hundred dollars in the bank, yet five days after Gabe was born, we made a deal to purchase our first house, using a few thousand dollars that we borrowed from one of my brothers. That house was a half-burned shell that the Talent fire department had planned to use for a practice burn until Pepper and I decided to salvage it.

My brother’s kindness and trust were repaid with interest after about five years, and over the course of 25, Pepper and I steadily rebuilt, expanded and improved our home to meet the needs of our growing family. That house saw us through the raising of our four kids, and we enjoyed many fun, heartwarming Christmas gatherings together there with an overflowing crowd of great friends.

In 2005, with our youngest child finishing her first year in college and our three boys already living independently, Pepper and I decided to sell our wonderful home and embark on a new adventure in Joseph. Somehow, through God’s grace, good fortune, and sweat equity, a carpenter/contractor dad and a day-care provider/paramedic mom managed to multiply our initial home investment twenty-fold.

Now, 10 years later, we look forward every two years to Christmases together with all our kids, with their three fabulous spouses, and our two adorable grandchildren.

Whether for a sometimes frightened, struggling, awestruck family in Bethlehem, Ashland, Talent, or Joseph, the miracle of Christmas lives on.

John McColgan writes from his home in Joseph.