There's no better time to have a baby boy than Christmastime. My parents did. And we did. No, not my wife and me. That really would be a Christmas miracle. It was our son and daughter-in-law.
And as of this past weekend, our family can say, with the ancient prophecy of Jesus' coming, "to us a child is born; to us a son is given" (Isaiah 9:6). And what a baby boy he is, charging into the world at ten pounds, ten ounces!
The parents decided to hold off on announcing Christmas-boy's name until he was born. They gave him a strong Bible name for a first name. But it was his middle name that melted me into a puddle. It's my brother's name. The one who died suddenly when I was only four years old. The baby who brought Jesus to our family.
I was a baby boy born at Christmastime, too. But into a family who knew little or nothing about Jesus. I never heard about Him. In our little second-floor apartment on the south side of Chicago, there was, as in the Christmas story, "no room" for Jesus. There was room for gambling and arguing and drinking, but we were spiritually nowhere.
Then came the night my only sibling, my baby brother, was rushed to the hospital. He never came home. And my dad's heart broke. In his grief, he decided he should take his four-year-old son to church. Oh, he didn't go in - he just stayed in the car and read his Sunday paper and smoked his cigarette. One Sunday I came bounding out of that church, and I said, "Daddy, today I accepted Jesus into my heart." I don't think he had any idea what I was talking about.
But the following Christmas Eve he got it. That night my father went to church there and came out with Jesus in his heart, too. My mom soon followed. And Jesus became the center of our life in that little apartment. And I got a brand new mommy and daddy.
All because of a baby who died. As I understand the Bible, my little brother's in heaven. But his mom and dad and brother were headed for a different destination. He was the only one in our family who was ready to die. My whole family believed then, and believes now, that my baby brother was sent by God to lead us to Jesus. And over the years, it has been my privilege to be there as many thousands of folks have found the same Jesus that changed my family - and our eternities - forever.
Because of that baby and the mission he accomplished, all my children belong to Jesus. And so do all their children who are old enough to welcome Jesus into their heart as I did. One of my children is the father of a brand new, hours-old baby boy. The baby I'm looking at across this hospital room right now. Who bears the name of the baby God used to give me Jesus.
I can't answer all those hard questions about why God allows suffering and pain in the world. But I can tell you how God used the seemingly "senseless" death of a baby to help me, my family and ultimately countless others be in heaven someday.
But, then, Christmas is really all about a Baby who came to die so we could live. And I'll never stop thanking Him that He saw that lost little family in a second floor apartment on the south side of Chicago. And sent a missionary - my brother - who never spoke a word to give us Jesus.