So I’ve been trying to remind myself of why I need to celebrate Christmas, namely the birth of Jesus Christ. But it’s been even harder this year than ever before.

Let me start by saying that even now, I lose many nights of sleep going back to the ways I could’ve prevented Junia’s liver failure. I would give almost anything to free myself from the guilt that eats at me every time I am with her. But here you’re telling me that God, knowing full and all too well what was in store for his one and only begotten son, willingly went ahead with his son’s birth. I imagine Jesus must have been the most perfect baby: he was God, after all. 

Ever since last clinic Junia’s abdominal wound was declared closed: no more daily dressing changes! But ever since that day, I have felt so exposed. I no longer had a bandage to cover that now scar that swallows her midsection—and because she is a baby, that scar is on display almost every time I do a diaper change. I don’t want anyone to see. I feel it is her story to share when she so chooses. But worst of all, I hate the idea of her becoming a curio: an object of curiosity and not being.

But Isaiah seems clear that Jesus’s scars are different, and are, in fact, a testament of his love: “Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered him punished by God, stricken by him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed” (53:4-5 NIV).

If I knew that Junia’s suffering would bring me or even others even one measure of peace, would I allow it? Never, my heart cries. I rather it be me. But I remind myself that in the case of Jesus, it most certainly should have been me.

Oh, that I would be more like Jesus, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning it’s shame.