It’s His Birthday, After All

I saw Mrs. Henderson placing baby Jesus in her nativity scene tonight.

It was late—nearly midnight on Christmas Eve—and I was coming back from my third store run of the evening, arms full of bags containing things I’d somehow forgotten despite weeks of planning. She was in her front yard, bathrobe over her clothes, carefully settling the tiny figure into the manger while snow fell softly around her.

She looked up as I passed, must have seen the confusion on my face—who puts out nativity pieces at midnight?—and she smiled.

“It’s his birthday, after all,” she said simply. “Wouldn’t be right to have him there before he arrives.”

I nodded, mumbled something about that making sense, and continued to my door. But her words stuck with me as I brought my bags inside, as I looked at the pile of wrapped presents under our tree, at the stack of Amazon boxes I still hadn’t broken down, at the credit card statement I was afraid to open.

It’s his birthday.

When did I forget that?

When did Christmas become about the things I bought instead of the child who was born? When did it become about my anxiety over whether I’d gotten enough, spent enough, planned enough? When did the whole thing turn into a performance I was constantly afraid of failing?

There’s a scene in Charlie Brown’s Christmas where he stands in the snow and yells, “Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?” And Linus walks out to center stage with his blanket and simply tells the story. No apology. No irony. Just the truth: “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”

That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

Not the presents. Not the lights. Not the perfect Instagram-worthy moment or the viral TikTok or the family photo where everyone’s smiling and nobody’s crying.

A baby. In a manger. Because God loved us enough to show up.

Presence, not presents.

I’ve heard that phrase a thousand times. It’s on coffee mugs and Pinterest boards and probably cross-stitched on a pillow somewhere in a Hobby Lobby. But watching Mrs. Henderson in her bathrobe, carefully placing that tiny figure in the straw at midnight, I finally understood it.

God didn’t send a package. Didn’t send a gift card or a donation in our name or a catalog of options to choose from. He sent himself. He showed up. Was present.

And somehow, two thousand years later, I’ve turned his birthday party into a shopping marathon where I’m the one stressed out, the one panicking, the one missing the whole point while I track packages and refresh screens and wonder if I bought enough batteries.

More than a century ago, a little girl named Virginia wrote to the New York Sun asking if Santa Claus was real. The editor, Francis Church, wrote back with words that have lasted: “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.” But he didn’t stop there. He wrote about faith, about poetry, about the unseen things that are most real. About how love and generosity and devotion exist, and “they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.”

He was writing about more than Santa. He was writing about the reason Santa exists at all—because of a baby born in Bethlehem who taught us that giving isn’t about the gift, it’s about the love behind it.

My kids are going to wake up tomorrow to presents. That’s not wrong. The Wise Men brought gifts too. But the gifts weren’t the point. The presence was the point. They showed up. They traveled far to be there. To witness. To honor. To be present for the presence of God.

I can’t undo tonight’s shopping. Can’t return the stress or the panic or the three store trips. And honestly, tomorrow will be wonderful. My kids will be happy. We’ll eat too much. We’ll laugh. We’ll be together.

But I can remember Mrs. Henderson in her bathrobe, placing baby Jesus in the manger at midnight.

“It’s his birthday, after all.”

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe if I can just remember that—really remember it—then all the other stuff falls into proper perspective. The presents become expressions of love rather than measures of success. The stress becomes something I can let go of because it was never the point anyway.

Christmas isn’t about what I bought or didn’t buy, what I remembered or forgot, whether I got the right thing or spent enough or made it perfect.

Christmas is about a baby in a manger. About God showing up. About presence.

The rest is just wrapping paper.

And tomorrow, after the chaos of unwrapping and breakfast and playing with new toys, maybe I’ll walk over to Mrs. Henderson’s house and thank her. For the reminder. For placing Jesus in the manger at the right time, on his actual birthday, because details like that matter when you remember what you’re celebrating.

For helping me see, on a frantic Christmas Eve, what Charlie Brown was looking for:

Someone who knows what Christmas is all about.

It’s not about the presents under the tree.

It’s about the presence in the manger.

It’s his birthday, after all.