Photo courtesy of iStockPhoto/aimintang

The following post was written on Christmas morning, 2010, in Killeen, Texas.

I awakened this Christmas morning in an inn. Never did I imagine that I would spend Christmas Eve and Christmas morning in an inn. Remembering fondly the births of my three children, I recall that I did not spend that time lodging in an inn. Yet in spite of the comfortable surroundings built into these modern homes away from home, there is still a sense of being unsettled.

I am here because of my son. The United States Army operates on a schedule that does not alter for anything except the worst of disaster. My son is scheduled for duty in such a way that it would be impossible for him to travel home to be with our family. Therefore, we have brought the family to him.

Irritation with the inflexible Roman government was likely the source of much grumbling and criticism as travelers compelled by the world wide taxation, made their way to ancestral hometowns. Feet moved one in front of the other on dusty roads. Children were alternately energetic, then hungry, then tired. Old men grumbled their criticism of the government, unnecessary hardships, and those infernal taxes. Families found themselves displaced in order to accomplish the whims of a tyrant. Schedules were interrupted, livelihoods were put on hold, and pregnant women were forced into nightmarish scenarios.

It is doubtful that Joseph and his bride traveled toward Bethlehem alone. Jacob, Joseph’s dad, was also of the house and lineage of David. One thing is for sure, there were enough travelers making their way back to the City of David that the local inns filled to capacity. There would be no maid service nor breakfast bar; not even a cup of coffee. A place where animals were kept seemed to be the most practical spot to take refuge. As Joseph contemplated his situation, I wonder if he didn’t shake his head and say, “Never did I imagine that I would experience the birth of this special child in such a place as this.”

What he could not have known at the time was this: he was here because of his son. God had established the when and the where of this birth and brought the family to this place, in this time. Emmanuel was scheduled for duty. The heavenly Father had a plan in response to the greatest disaster of all time. His son was born to die and in the process, save His people from their sins.

I’m spending Christmas in an inn. Joseph couldn’t find one for his pregnant wife. I slept in a bed. He slept wherever he could. We are here because of our sons.

He never looked back.  He hugged his mother and me, told us he loved us, and walked from the car into sacrificial service without so much as a hesitation.  I, on the other hand stood gazing after him, wishing that someone would spring from behind a bush and announce, “You’re on TV’s Bloopers and Practical Jokes!”  No such luck.  That little boy who bounced through childhood like Tigger is now a hulking young man with a cocky, powerful stride, yet still possessed of a tender, compassionate heart.  In nine weeks the Army would leave its imprint on him.

Just six months later, my wife and I endured the same scene again.  Like some recurring nightmare we watched the broad back and powerful shoulders of my eldest son walk down the same path.  Their destinations would be different; Iraq and Afghanistan.  Their experiences; as far apart as the headwaters of the Tigris and Arghandab Rivers, yet each marched forward without so much as a glance to the rear.

I know that I am not the first dad to endure this life changing event.  I walked down this well worn path with my friend Russ not long ago.  His son, at the time, was counting down the final days of an enlistment in the U.S. Marine Corps.  I knelt in prayer with him as Rusty left for Iraq. I rejoiced with him when Rusty came home safe and sound.  He assured me that he would in turn, walk that path with me.

The imprint on His son would be lasting.  Thirty years of woodworking would certainly leave a carpenter’s hands calloused and scarred.  Yet his touch was tender enough to comfort even the smallest child.  That young carpenter, whose birth caused angels to sing, now knelt in acute agony.  In that prayer of complete surrender, he made certain of the Father’s will.  He strode from the garden through the narrow corridors of a torturous night, arriving at Calvary bruised, bloody, and condemned.  He was scarred one last time; for me.

Oh what private pain must have pierced the Father’s heart as the hour of separation loomed near!  What indescribable anguish must have gripped Him who judges sin, upon seeing His son become the subject of judgment!  In that moment of selfless sacrifice, God’s own son embraced the cross.  He cried out at the stab of alienation from His Father.  He became my Savior.  From the manger in Bethlehem to the place of the skull, not once did he ever hesitate; he never looked back.