Reflections of a Christmas baby

My dad is a pastor, so it was a source of some significant consternation when the ob/gyn told him that his firstborn would arrive sometime on or around Christmas Eve, his busiest day of the year. So he told the ushers and the organist that if his wife gave the high sign and he had to bolt for the hospital in the middle of the service, they should just sing whatever carols were left in the order of worship and send everyone home—he’d be long gone. I waited until Christmas Eve services were over to arrive and instead showed up on Christmas Day proper.

It’s been fun sharing a birthday with Jesus. I never had to go to school or now have to go to work on my birthday. I always spend the day surrounded by family. I suppose in my school years there were certain missed opportunities, much like anyone whose birthday fell in the summertime—no bringing treats for classmates on your birthday. And turning 21 is tamer for a Christmas baby—you don’t want to be at a bar at midnight when the clock rolls over from the 24th to the 25th.

But on the whole I wouldn’t trade my Christmas birthday for any other date. It’s been an unexpected chance to witness to people who need to see my driver’s license to verify my age—waitresses, bartenders, bankers, and TSA agents. Not infrequently they’ll look at my date of birth and comment, “Oh, wow, a Christmas baby.” And that gives me a chance to talk to them about Jesus.

People often ask if it means I get less presents or attention having a Christmas birthday. The answer is that my family has been scrupulously fair about presents. We’d usually sleep in (because dad was exhausted from the day before with its full schedule of services) and then do Christmas presents midday, followed by gathering with extended family and dinner. Then for dessert, while everyone else would enjoy a fruitcake or yule log, we’d have a birthday cake (always chocolate) followed by birthday presents.

I’ll admit that I think the perfect birthday for kids is probably pretty close to the famed answer in the movie Miss Congeniality: April 25 (“it's not too hot, not too cold, all you need is a light jacket”). A Christmas birthday atop Christmas itself results in a double-helping of cold-weather clothing and indoor toys; a late spring birthday would be perfect to spread out the winter-themed gifts and the summer-themed clothes and gear.

But gifts are less important now. Things look different in adulthood, with my own kids now the center of the action on Christmas Day and us parents and grandparents along for the ride. Even still, we manage to carve out a few minutes to sing happy birthday at some point. And for my 40th, my incredible wife and family figured out childcare for all the kids in our clan so my parents, in-laws, and siblings could join us for a celebratory dinner at the Wisconsin Room at the American Club. (What could be more Daniel Suhr than a restaurant called the Wisconsin Room at a hotel called the American Club!?!)

My sister’s birthday is in April, and some years it has fallen on Easter (festive and fun), other years on Good Friday (a little more somber). My brother was born on July 5, so I joke he always gets a backyard barbecue and fireworks show for his birthday celebration. But I’m very happy to be a Christmas baby—it’s a season of magic and joy, of lights and loved ones.

And it’s a privilege to share a birthday celebration with Jesus, even if Dec. 25 is just assigned by Christian tradition. It makes me appreciate the wonders of modernity and the privileges of America in the late 20th century. I was born in a clean, sanitary hospital, not a manger in a cave, a destination my parents reached after a ten-minute car ride, not a multi-day hike or donkey journey. I was attended by a doctor and nurses, not shepherds or sheep. And it’s a consistent and unique reminder in my life that, as my mom says to me most years on my birthday, you were my greatest Christmas gift, second only to Christ’s own advent.