It is 3 AM when I stuff my sleeping girls’ feet into their snow boots and pull woolen hats snuggly over their bed hair and pink ears. The van is packed, and we are traveling to Bethlehem. Bethlehem Baptist Church in Minneapolis, that is. For weeks, we have planned our trip to meet our new baby boy, to swaddle him in the blankets we have lovingly chosen, folded and re-folded, and to love him into our eager family.

The Sanctuary of Bethlehem is filled with anticipation, impending births, and imminent joy. In the shadows, skirting the edges of light, there will be challenges, too. But making our way north to Minneapolis, neither relentless snow nor potential challenges can dampen our spirits. We are traveling to Bethlehem, and nothing will stop us.

For weeks, we have known our son through two 3 x 5 photos which reveal a 4 pound infant, arms swimming in a powder blue sleeper two sizes too large, hands lost in the folds of soft flannel, and thick, black hair beneath which there are two bright eyes the color of rich wood. I have known my son in dreams, have seen him swaddled in the same blankets I used with my daughters, a brown bundle of a boy who would follow his own dreams into a world he would change and grace.  And I imagine his sixteen-year-old birth mother and nameless father, the absence of their son a millstone they will carry. Endlessly. The gift we will soon receive is the sacrifice they have made in love.

After an hour on the road, I turn to see my daughters, slack-jawed, their heads upon each other’s shoulders like child dominoes, sleeping soundly once again. His eyes fixed on the road, my husband drives and does not speak. As I watch the snow hit the windshield, I mentally go through my checklists, once again.

• Diaper bag with essentials? Check. Disposable diapers, two bottles, Similac, two sleepers–one blue, one yellow–a pacifier (would he take one?), two new receiving blankets, a snowsuit, baby wipes, and a bottle of infant Tylenol (just in case).
• Quinn’s room? Check. Crib assembled with new baby boy bedding, changing table near the door, rocking chair in the corner under the windows where the moon pours in and splashes gloriously across the carpet.
• Life with a baby again? Check. Set the alarm one hour earlier on school days (to feed Quinn and shower, if humanly possible, before I get the girls up), make extra bottles, stock extra diapers and formula, carry a pacifier, or two, in my purse for back-ups, make sure the girls are included in baby care, honor before-bed book time (so we keep reading!), and nap when the baby sleeps (so I will survive sleep deprivation).

From the outside, looking in, I imagine that this whole venture appears organized, orderly, and utterly destined for success. This could be a Hallmark Christmas movie-in-the-making. Beautiful sleeping girls in the backseat, an eager father and mother, and miles away in a modestly-appointed Iowa home, a well-worn crib that will hold a perfect child once again.

As I read Luke’s account of Mary and Joseph’s journey to Bethlehem, I am struck with the same apparent certainty:

So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them. [Luke 2: 4-7]

They traveled to Bethlehem. Check. They registered, according to the law. Check. Mary gives birth to Jesus. Check. They make-do with a manger for a crib. Check. Movie accounts of Jesus’s birth often feature a young and beautiful Mary who labors quickly without the indignities of bodily fluids, hateful, guttural words directed at her husband that come from the bowels (not literally) of pain, and hands that claw the air in fear. Joseph is GQ handsome, great with donkeys, and wholly prepared to deliver a baby in straw. And Jesus? He cries–just enough so that viewers know he is healthy and alive–pinks up quickly, and stares adoringly into his mother’s face, bright and blue-eyed, as he is nestled into “cloths” which are clean and white. From the outside, looking in, this all looks good. This all looks incredibly neat.

In the Sanctuary of Bethlehem, there is goodness and neatness. There is peace which passes all understanding and which endures dark, dank stables and cold nights on snowy highways. But from the inside looking out, there are also those indignities, those uncertainties and downright fears that live and breathe, pushing the surface of bright appearances for air. Mary and Joseph knew them just as certainly as my husband and I do.

The Bethlehem of movies and ceramic nativity scenes is beautifully crafted to make us smile. We stand and sing “All is Well,” lustily and with conviction. Indeed, all is well. The Savior of the World is born, and everything has changed with this birth. Still, the carefully edited film scenes and exquisitely painted features cannot tell the whole story.

An hour outside of Minneapolis, I find myself holding my breath, willing myself to breathe and my heart to beat. What if the plane from Georgia was delayed? What if the caseworker realized that we had failed to complete some necessary paperwork? What if our son had gotten sick and couldn’t make the trip? What if we had come to Bethlehem only to leave, childless and broken? What would I tell my daughters? What would I tell myself?

In the daylight now, my sleeping daughters’ faces are streaked with drool, their hair matted with sweat under their hats, and their voices urgent with cries for breakfast. My husband hides behind a mask of purpose, navigating the traffic as we near the city. And I pass granola bars from the front to the backseat to placate the girls, who insist that this is not “really breakfast.” This is not the stuff that Hallmark movies are made of; bright appearances have given way to gritty reality.

In less than 30  minutes, we will arrive at the Bethlehem Baptist Church, where–God willing–our caseworker and infant son wait for us. We will unload our daughters and our carefully-packed diaper bag. We will walk into the church where our family of five will become a family of six.