Christmas draws me in because of the sheer wonder woven through the story — not sentiment, not scenery, but the astonishing way God moves through ordinary people and everyday places.

Look closely, and the Nativity unfolds as a series of moments stitched with courage, humility, and revelation.

Mary and Joseph — The Costly Yes

You see Mary and Joseph first — a young couple standing on the threshold of a story they never imagined.

Mary carries both miracle and stigma in her body.
Joseph shoulders a responsibility he didn’t choose, absorbing whispers, assumptions, and cultural judgement simply because God asked him to stay.

Their obedience isn’t loud.
It’s not dramatic.
But it is costly.

And it holds the earthly side of the story together.

The Shepherds — Night-Shift Workers Invited First

Then there are the shepherds — night-shift workers on the hills outside Bethlehem, tending their flocks under cold sky and quiet darkness.

They are the first to hear heaven break its silence.
The first to be told the Messiah has come.
The first to kneel before the true Passover Lamb.

Not priests.
Not scholars.
Not the powerful or impressive.

Just ordinary people doing ordinary work — and God goes to them first.

Simeon and Anna — The Watchers Who Recognised Him

Forty days later, the scene shifts to the temple.

There you find Simeon and Anna — two lifelong watchers, two hearts tuned to God’s promise. Simeon has been waiting for consolation; Anna has been praying for redemption.

When Mary and Joseph walk in carrying Jesus, they recognise Him instantly.

No bright star above them now.
No angels singing.
Just a young mother with a baby in her arms —
and two elderly saints whose spirits leap at the sight.

They know.
They’ve been waiting for this moment their whole lives.

The Magi — Worship From Far Away

And later still, you see the Magi.

They don’t arrive at the manger.
They find Jesus in a house, likely when He is a little older.

Yet they fall to their knees all the same.

Their journey — long, costly, uncertain — becomes an act of worship. Their gifts speak what their words barely need to:

This Child is the true King.

All These Moments Build Toward One Hidden Scene

Each scene rises like a step, leading to a moment the Gospels never describe directly —
a moment that stands behind the entire story:

the first breath of Jesus.

We are so used to the manger that we forget the miracle of what happened in Mary’s arms.

The Physiology of a Newborn — And the Theology of God Made Flesh

Before that breath, Jesus’ lungs were filled with fluid, just like every other child’s.
For months, His body had been preparing for life beyond the womb.

His tiny adrenal glands released cortisol,
that hormone which signals the lungs to begin producing surfactant —
the substance that coats the alveoli and allows the lungs to open for the first time.

Without surfactant, the lungs collapse.
Without cortisol, the surfactant does not come.
Without that first cry, breathing cannot begin.

Every newborn depends on this sequence.

So did Jesus.

The Creator Inhales His Creation

And then, at the appointed moment, it happened.

The Creator inhaled.

Air He designed.
Air He spoke into existence.
Air that would one day carry His teaching, His laughter, His prayers,
and His final cry from the cross.

His alveoli opened for the first time.
Oxygen filled the body of the One who sustains the universe.

And then came His first cry —
not a sign of weakness,
but the sound of real humanity beginning.

A cry that said:

“I am here.”
“I am one of you.”
“I have entered your world fully.”

For the First Time in All Creation, God Breathed

It is a moment so ordinary that it happens every day in maternity wards.
And a moment so extraordinary that heaven itself bends low to marvel.

God with breath in His body.
God with oxygen in His blood.
God held in human arms, inhaling the air He made.

This is the wonder of Christmas —
not just that God came,
but how He came.

Not distant.
Not disguised.
Not bypassing our biology.

But entering it —
all the way down to cortisol and surfactant,
lungs opening,
and a newborn cry under a Bethlehem sky.

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A Poetic Ending

And so we come to the stillness at the edge of that first night —
where heaven’s infinite worth fills a space small enough
for the hands of a young mother
and the breath of a newborn Child.

The Maker of stars
resting beneath them.
The Ancient of Days
measured in minutes.
The One who gave breath to Adam
breathing beside us now.

No throne.
No crown.
Just the quiet rhythm of a tiny chest rising and falling,
whispering to the world:

I have come.
I am with you.
I will not leave.

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“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us,
and we beheld His glory…”
John 1:14 (NKJV)

In that first breath,
in that first cry,
in that fragile human frame,
the Word dwelt among us —
and the glory we behold is wrapped in humility,
held in human arms,
and breathing air for the very first time.

If you enjoyed this reflection, you may want to read more stories that explore how broken Christmases, difficult years, and lost seasons can still become part of a larger story of healing and hope.