Walking with Mary in Lent -2

Journey 2


There was a lot of bustle in town, with men, women and children packing for Pesach (Passover). Everyone seemed to be going to Jerusalem. For seven days, all Israel would be commemorating their freedom from Egyptian slavery. Mary had learned about it from her father, Heli Joachim and Hanna, her mother, who, in turn had retold the story, they had heard from their forefathers. At nightfall, Hebrews would honor the memory of the midnight of the 15th of the month of Nissan in the year 2448 from creation, when, during special Seder meals, chametz (leaven) would be replaced by matzah (unleavened bread) and maror (bitter herbs). Over four cups of wine, they would retell how, after many decades of backbreaking labor and unbearable horrors, God had sent His last warning to Egyptian pharaohs, to set Israelite slaves free. Despite ten devastating plagues that had destroyed everything from livestock to crops, Egyptian pharaohs still held them hostage. Because God wanted His people to serve Him, He wrought upon Egyptians, the death of all their firstborn children, “passing over” Hebrew homes, whose children were spared.



For Mary it was not a celebration that she wished to remember. She would have preferred to totally overlook the date, blocking it out completely, if it hadn’t been for Sarah, Her eldest son’s wife, who had insisted on having them join the pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The date evoked painful memories of a similar massacre which she and Joseph had rushed from, scuttling their firstborn out of Israel, back into Egypt when he was just a baby. It had been horrible. She still couldn´t understand what had happened. If it hadn´t been for her loving angel, who had warned them just in time to flee, she herself would have chosen to be killed along with her adored Jhesus.



It was early spring, the Hebrew month of Nissan, and the trip to celebrate Pesach, gave her the perfect excuse to go to Jerusalem. She was planning to go anyway, and it would avoid having to find a reason why she wanted to go, in the first place. She really didn´t know. Confessing it was because of an intuitive presage, would have put her in the lips of all, who were already spreading venom critically, about Jhesus and His friends.



She had continued pondering over the killing of Egyptian firstborn and her similar experience, wondering why such innocent sacrificial lambs had to die in the first place. It almost seemed to be a prerequisite for Life, to continue. Her mulling was abruptly interrupted when Sarah rushed over to hug her. “Thank you”, she said effusively, “Oh! Thank you! I’ll be able to see James! He will be so happy to see the children!”



Later that day, while starting to bake provisions for their trip, her thoughts went back to Egypt. She thought of the food needed to feed the six hundred thousand men, women and children, leaving Egypt on their trek to Mount Sinai. ‘Of course!’ They would have to prepare matzah, flat unleavened bread, zealously guarded against moisture, instead of chametz, for it to last! ‘So that´s why handmade schmurach matzah was dried from the moment of harvest’, she thought.



Celebrating the Passover Seders required strict adherence to traditional Hebrew rituals which would be difficult to adhere to, while travelling. She tried to convince herself that honoring the miracle of liberty didn´t need strict following of the obliged fifteen-ritual-ceremony. ‘Just bringing the family together and sharing Seders with the boys in Jerusalem was a feast in itself. They were travelling from so far away’ she reflected. ‘The greatest miracle they would celebrate would be the life they had had after such near death’.

Back home, the celebration would require intensive spring-cleaning, in search of all leavened grain. Any food or drink with a trace of wheat, barley, rye or oats would have to be disposed of and destroyed. Mary was convinced that the burning of the chametz ceremony, the morning prior to Pesach, could be replaced with acts of humility. ‘The flat, unflavored bread just required ridding inflated selves, to be able to tap into the miraculous well of divine energy we all have within our souls’, she thought. So, taking her cue from the matzah, she would give away something personal to the needy, before they left. That would cleanse her from chametz.

‘Of course, the recitation of the Haggadah, could not be replaced’. It was an obligation to recount the story of the Exodus on the night of Passover.

Though the commemoration should last the whole week, the first two Seder nights would be enough to rejoice over the miracle of being together; that in itself would be a full celebration.

‘Oh!’ She thought suddenly, ‘She must take the wine for Kiddush. Sanctifying the shabbath would require wine!’ She would ask Sarah to make a leather bag, from the sheeps´hide they were preparing. The trip´s continual travelling would help crush the grapes and shake them enough to settle into wine, just in time for Pesach.



Urgency pressed her on. So, she eked out the strength to continue her diligent preparation.

‘Where was it they were going!?’….she rummaged. Again, the familiar foreboding had her envision a coming storm… She automatically diverted from her pressing pessimism, assuring it was because it would surely rain. ‘She had to ask her little grandson, Omar, to cut some palm tree leaves to take along, for shelter’.



For years, Mary had opened her home to villagers for afternoon prayers. They had formed quite a large group of regulars, that always left an air of benediction. And she was grateful for it. But lately she had left vespers and preferred to pray alone in the garden´s grove. Her spirit stirred with unrest and only solitude gave her solace.

That afternoon, she had unwittingly kept repeating ‘Abba, Aboon’ (“Father, Our Father” in Aramaic). Over and over, her heart beat to that mantra-like plea, surging from some profound, dire prayer.

‘Aboon Dbashmayo’ (“Our Father who art in Heaven”)… she continued, with desperate persistence. ‘Oh! But “heaven” seemed so far from the everyday chaos which Romans had wrought…’she thought hopelessly. As if to suppress her distrust, she suddenly remembered the comforting words with which Isabel had greeted her, years back, when both cousins had shared their fears during pregnancy.

“Moran a'amekh”, (“the Lord is with thee”), Isabel had reminded her, as they greeted… ‘Yes, my Father is always with me’ she repeated to herself, again and again, till her anguish was finally appeased.          



As I reflected, in contemplation, I found myself, too, keeping unconscious rhythm to the same urgent plea…inhaling “Bless me…”, and exhaling “Bless all…, Abba, Aboon”.        

Walking with Mary in Lent -1

Journey 1


I found her shaking, trembling inconsolably…she shivered under a foreboding shadow of terror, she knew not why. She suddenly felt alone…She knelt and as She covered her eyes to cry. She found herself leaning her head on an angel´s lap…or was it Joseph´s? It seemed so familiar. She had recently lost him and found herself about to commiserate pitifully about her agony, to God. But Job had come to mind…and she held back.

Somehow, this was different.

Again, she felt lifeless, totally depleted. But this time, her intuitive nature had tearful anticipation, of a bleeding heart. She knew it wasn´t hers. Her heart could bear being torn apart and pierced for Love.. but this was a pain too heavy to bear. She wept and as she washed Her tears away, found Her hands were full of blood. The lap held her bleeding face reassuringly. She cuddled closer, letting go. It somehow held her up and gave Her strength… and eventually peace.. not from acceptance but from holy resignation. “Not my will but Yours, be done, My Lord” She whispered….and fell asleep on the holy lap.

An hour went by, or was it a day.. it felt like centuries… She arose, strengthened with a courage beyond herself. Strangely, she had her son in mind, strongly fixed on going to Jerusalem. It was an urgent need to see Him.



Mary lived in Nazareth, in a little home embedded in the mountain. It was close to a well, with grounds, big enough to breed her chickens, goats and host a little garden with fruit trees and the herbs needed for healing the neighboring villagers. She lived with two daughters-in-law who kept her company and helped around the house. Her sons had gone off with Jhesus, stubbornly insisting he would need them. It was all so unexpected, so unconceivable…..far from anything She had ever hoped for them. Times were hard and unpredictable with luring danger all around. They all said it was the Romans who were the enemy, but somehow she distrusted even the Jews who now seemed so foreign.

She walked up to cup seeds in her hand and feed the chickens and a little bird she kept in an open cage. He had refused to fly away after healing his broken wing in her hands. His singing always eased her anguish.

It would take her at least two weeks to prepare for the trip to Jerusalem. She was already making a mental list of all She would have to do…fix olives…(would she pickle them or put them in vinegar?) She would have to buy fish (perhaps she would ask one of the local villagers to fish a fresh shoal for her, on the fishermen’s next trip to sea, at Galilee). She would have to salt it and hang it up to dry for at least a week…and Oh! She just had to finish the lovely silk shroud She had been weaving for Jhesus…She so worried about him and his nomadic travels through cold and winds.

It was at least 100 miles to Jerusalem. It would take well over 8 days to get there, since, she wouldn´t be travelling alone. Her two daughters’ in law would have to accompany her. She was 47 years old now. Her hair was almost completely grey and her feet were worn with life. Though she felt strong, they would have to take her 3 grandchildren along. The older one, now twelve, reminded her so much of Jhesus when she and Joseph had spent days looking for him in Jerusalem. He was about the same age. They had been so worried, back then…and, as it gladly turned out, needlessly so. Now, she was confident God would always be taking care of him, or would He? Could He? She shivered at the mere doubt and threw aside her ungodly thoughts.



Yes, they would have to travel along the Jordan, where they could quell the thirst of their caravanning animals. They would have to take the old cart, and at least three of four of the donkeys…and the mule would have to tag along just to carry enough food for the trip, and an additional rationing she wanted to take for Jhesus and the boys. She yearned eagerly to see Him and yet she froze at the thought.

It was a 90-mile walk to the village of Ein Karem, John the Baptist’s traditional birth place, and only five miles more to Jerusalem from the southwest. They would surely have to stay a day or two at Martha and Lazarus’ home. They would not forgive her if they knew she was going to Jerusalem and didn´t stop by to see them. They lived at al-Eizariya, Bethany, about two hours from Jerusalem. Perhaps she would find Jhesus there. She knew he always stayed with them. It was safe, and they were always so loving. What would she take for them? She remembered Lazarus had been ill for a while. After pausing to think of it, she was appeased with the idea of carving them some prayer beads.



‘Oh!’ She thought to herself suddenly, as the idea caught up with her that she would also have to churn goats’ milk to take some cheese. Yes, there was much to do.



It was a couple days later, when despite her busy agenda, a sullen sadness weighed down upon her shoulders, again. It even blocked the sunlight as it filtered through the grove, where she was pulling spices for her cooking.  She suddenly burst out crying, despairingly, not knowing why. Her tears fell to the ground. Unexpectedly, a flower bloomed where her tears had fallen, as if filled with holy compassion. ‘Hold on’, it seemed to say, and she smiled inadvertedly. ‘Had that flower been there before’, she wondered?

Just then, her dogs ran directly to her side, wagging their tails excitedly, as if she had called for them. They had responded to her silent cry for solace. She patted them and pulled out, some dry unleaved bread from her garments´s pocket, which she had been crumbling for the chickens. They wagged on, gratefully. Oh! If only she could be so trusting; if only she could rejoice at little things and overlook the shadow of death that loomed beside Her. Again, she looked up at the Heavens and heaved heavily for breath.

Urgency returned, and pressed her on to hurry with her chores. ‘She would have to take the dogs along’, she thought to herself, regaining serenity.




As I contemplated, meditating over the scene, reliving every imagined detail, I realized Mary’s trip would take longer than the 40 days of Lent. In fact, her journey is probably still on-going, since she would be trying to reach each us all.

The dark side of Love

Love spreads its wings and casts a shadow

To Amos Oz

She lay barren in the night…hopelessly calling unto death.

She lay listless, hoping to seduce death into believing, she was ready.

Then suddenly, she got hungry. 

Mary was that way. Her wick was short…both for patience, for focus, for desire.  During the day she was a patient at Londonberry Psychiatric Home. At night, she lit her wick and just for a flicker, she was brilliant.

She got up and walked over to the small refrigerator in her dorm. As she opened its door, light flooded in and lit the shadows all around her. She was accustomed to them as she walked in darkness, being born under the moon´s shadow. She reached in for the left-over hot-dog, she had started eating, earlier.

She hurried the door shut. Mary was reluctant to light. Her slight figure was more elegant at night. She was a shy and somber young lady…At daytime, just a profile. At night an enticing black hole. 

She went back to bed.. and continued bemusing the fact that she had so much to give..but no one to give it to, and chewed her tough hot dog.

Her ideas were so short that despite their depth, despite their intensity and fathomless desire, they seemed trifle. But her life was built on those fleeting moments…on the broken pieces of her shattered light…that glittered every now and then.

Replenished, she stretched and spread her wings. She only unraveled them, under the shelter of the night. She actually sat up and expanded her chest, as she unfolded the weight on her shoulders. She was majestic as she cast her shadow under the moonlight.

Where would she go, tonight?

She took a deep breath as she inhaled a hail Mary, invoking wind under her wings..

Whom would she love tonight?

“I’ll just trust the silent call that beckons”..she thought to herself, as she actually stood on the window sill, preparing to let go.

Love is a type of madness. Letting go like that, fearlessly trusting the gaping abyss of all, unknown. It requires generosity to take the leap. But Mary was fearless that way. She felt she had nothing to lose.

Every night she would go through this ritual before flying off to someone in need. It was much more than prayer.

Tonight, she envisioned a nearby hospital. She flew in the pediatric ward´s window and hovered over the sleeping children. One was awake. He was a seven-year old with severe burns.

“What happened, baby?” she asked tenderly as she flew down by his bedside…

The little boy just stared. He seemed to have been expecting the visit, but was heartless. He had been playing with his brother as they prepared festive fireworks for the town’s patron saint. They went off in his face. They also reached his heart because he felt nothing. No fear. No excitement. No expectations. No hope. No pain.

He too, wanted to die…but he didn´t know it, she felt.

They didn´t have to exchange words. The shared memory was gruesome, enough. She took him in her arms and cradled him in her wings. Suddenly she began to sing. The notes echoed from heavenly orbs moving to destiny’s partiture. Every stave had a tune, deep in rhythmic repetition. It seemed almost like a soothing mantra, rocking the boy to sleep.

She prayed down ointment as she sang, endearingly spreading it to soothe his wounds.

She enveloped him in her wings, all night. Then she placed him back on his pillow, listless.

Daylight.

Back in her bed, she curled up, tucking her wings ‘neath her covers, just in time, before the morning nurse walked in with her pills. Shadow-time.

What is righteousness?

There is nothing more radical than fighting for righteousness.

Yet how can you target it, when everybody’s perception of righteousness, is subjective?

Righteousness honors life. It dignifies man, flaunting the full meaning of dignity, as it ignites inner light.

Despite its cost, you stand tall when you do what is right, whether recognized or not. You can still look people in the eye; shed a tear in outbursts of compassion; flush at public recognition. Innocence is repaired in righteousness, shedding the lurid shadow of guilt that tags you, forever bringing you down. Righteousness makes living, less burdensome. It keeps you humble as it stands, unreachable. It keeps awe and wonder alive, when choosing to do what is right.

But how do we know what is right? How can we recognize it as an option, as we choose our path through life?

Righteousness stems from good will. Though ‘wishful thinking’ is not enough to generate a ‘good’ act, it motivates good intention.  In itself, the subsequent act may not have a ‘good’ result but, if the intention behind it is ‘good’; if generated before the act´s consummation (a priori), it appeases the soul. Good acts stem from peace.

Wrongdoing comes from turmoil. It re-acts aggressively or defensively, instead of responding to conflict, from inner peace. It justifies ‘bad’ acts, after they have been done (a posteriori). Though the motivating force behind it, be not consciously directed to doing wrong, the need to cover it up defensively, justifying its intention, is in itself a reflection of guilt. Guilt stems from wrongful intention. Whether the deed, in itself, is right or wrong, is hard to judge. Its effect may, in fact turn with time, or have hidden benefits. It depends on the significance given by those, affected.

Righteousness is constructed, both by the doer and by those affected by an act. It is not limited to a person or an act. It is the pulsating living force, that motivates life. It has movement of its own and is, therefore, unattainable. Nobody owns it. Its movement is released by ‘good’ will. Volition, both creates it and destroys it. We recognize it by its movement. It is alive; it cannot stand still; it cannot be possessed. Nobody is the owner of right. We can only travel on its back as it drives life, on. Resisting it is death-prone.

We choose righteousness; both, to do right, and to receive it. It does not come from judgment.  It is a choice. If we receive acts graciously, we can turn wrongdoing into righteousness. Gratitude is the grace that receives wrongdoing and its after-effect, into goodness, reverting its negative flow.

Righteousness is identified by its movement. It gives peace. If an act done, gives peace, it is right. ‘Good’ acts can only be generated from this inner peace. It is not about right and wrong, but about inner balance.

Keep it simple. It is the flow of life.

Change Management through Mass media

To survive in our fast-developing world and adapt to ever-changing technology, we have to be willing to change. Life itself is about change, continually evolving for adaptation. However, though nature has its laws to ensure the survival of the fittest, man’s life-span cannot wait that long! We change as a natural process, as we grow from infants to adolescence, to adulthood and old age. With consciousness and free will, man can give this change, a direction. It is, through conscious decisión-making, that we make of ‘change’, a ‘transformation’.

Given our multi-tiered nature, there are physical, emotional, rational and transpersonal (spiritual) factors involved in change. To control the way we change we must first become aware of these  multi-variate agents , as we play out our roles as individuals, as couples, as families, as communities and as society as a whole. Televised ‘reality shows’ are one way of associating ‘real-life’ with our own reality, identifying what we see with what we are living. It allows us to see in others, what we sometimes fail to see in ourselves. The process of unfolding from the safety of our living-room, introjecting awareness and projecting what we feel, on to what we see, is the first step towards developing consciousness through self-awareness and self-observation.
Identifying self in others as they live out our same life-situations, is the basic principle that sustains the television program “Hermosa Esperanza”, as it follows five reality-shows unfolding everyday-life in five different families, representing life in lower and middle class, Mexico City. The synergy between TELEVISA’s state of the art technology and Nestlé’s desire to change harmful eating habits among the Mexican population, make this program one of its kind. Its impact on behavioral change follows strategic steps in change-management, bridging the gap between the living condition AS IS, and change patterns that will determine conditions TO BE. Thus, mass media becomes an invaluable tool for change to become conscious, and transform our immediate reality.
Basic steps include:
1.       Develop self-awareness to observe yourself acting and reacting in daily life.
2.       Identify a problem affecting you.
3.       Pin-point  a direct cause.
4.       Set your target for change.
5.       Analyze the steps required for it.
6.       Decide to change.
7.       Commit to self-discipline.
8.       Be constant.
9.       Be willing to sacrifice and let go of ‘who you were, to give way to who you will ‘become’.
10.   Trust and open up to unforeseen novel conditions.
These basic principles set the guidelines followed during the pilot transmission of the one-hour  reality- show “Hermosa Esperanza”, transmitted weekly prime time, throughout Mexico. There is no script but life itself; nothing to hold on to except the hope for change; nothing to move you but the will to say YES to change.

How can we love beyond common sense?

Love is a mystery. It cannot be explained or rationalized. It does not obey reason, logic, cause or effect. It cannot be controlled or directed. Love IS.

Being so, of course it directly dethrones Ego-self.  ‘What do you mean I did not create or destroy love from free-will? What do you mean that love is an external force that does not depend on what I say or do?
My late husband and I met half way between a falling angel and a rising ape (I needn´t say who was who!). We had a totally different understanding of life and love. Where I was always yearning with an instinctive longing for fulfillment from Love at a higher realm, he was proudly bragging the love he could generate. One lived an ethereal reality, while the other was earth-bound and totally physical.
Those who identify with the capacity to see beyond what the eyes perceive,  sense a reality yet un-manifest, understanding Love as absolute. Those who limit reality to tangible truths, proved by deeds, need bodies to love.
Of course, experience integrates multiple realms of: a physical, psychological, rational and spiritual nature. Love encompasses all. It cannot be fragmented, though our limited perception distorts that subjective understanding of it. But even so, it is ‘lovable’. It rings a bell as if tapping into our unconscious knowing that love IS, far and beyond our experiencing of it. So when I love, I am isolated, separated from other’s experiencing of it and yet merged into a flow where I lose my self-conceived identity and become ONE with others. I can feel totally alienated, when I perceive such unfathomable love.
Common sense cannot contain love. It cannot understand it. No matter how it tries to define love, it ends up limiting it. Love cannot be held or contained in the present; nor in the past. Only the future can hold the ethereal possibility of love, held in HOPE.
The challenge is not to give way to doubt but Be-LIVE it.

Confusing Confessions

I was born an educator. The first ten years, I taught by repeating; the next ten years, I taught from knowledge; the following ten years, I taught from experience. Now, I teach from my errors.

Nothing brings us closer as humans, than our shared foibles and vulnerabilities.  The old aphorism states that “Errare humanum est” (it is human to err)…and yet, I think it is errors that make us human. Behind every deed there is an attitude, our outlook on life. But behind that, there is a mental pattern of associations that we create from our beliefs. So behind every error, we must look for the faulty thought-sequence we believe to be true.

These are some of my errors, which I share, not with the false expectation that they will help you avoid repeating yours, because somehow we each have to live our own mistakes, but in the hope that my boldness will encourage you to seek and reset your own false belief systems.

The hardest thing in my life has not been: becoming a doctor or a master in public health, or my field training in epidemiology, or my training as a military; nor running a national program against AIDS or spiking risk among adolescents to build resilient, life-driven pathways from death to health, but rather- having been born a girl.

I was the first-born of a Mexican patriarch, and not being  a boy, I was born a disappointment. Perhaps to appease such grievance, my father named me after his first mistress and as a child I became his girlfriend; he called me:  “novia mia”. That was my first confusion. He used to give me money, while keeping it from my mother. I embedded rivalry, guilt and carried shame and misgivings.

Now, he would have had me become a lady, since he inscribed me to Vogue magazine when I was fourteen – but oops! second disappointment. When I became ‘of-age’ for the ‘sex-talk’, he insisted I shun all male relationships, lest I become a whore. Little did he know I was no longer a virgin and his lecture was only branding me: ‘disgraced’.

Now my Mom taught me that to love was to suffer. And boy, she suffered enough: being an American single daughter, who ran after her love from the first-world, to live in the third-world was in itself a sacrifice. But then having five children, each 10 months apart, epitomized it.

I also lived ten years with our British tutor with whom we sang as a family quintet, songs that set the tune and rhythm to my life: the Impossible Dream, the Quijote of the Mancha and Sound of Music.

So my guilt came from my father; my self-sacrifice came from my mother; and my idyllic fantasy, from my tutor. These became my belief systems.
When my prince charming appeared, a stalwart Catholic believer, and asked me to marry him, I felt unworthy. And of all things, out of love for him, I self-sacrificed becoming a nun; a cloistered nun at that! Of course, I was fully equipped to enter the monastery: I was a whore in disgrace, who needed penance, to love;  a “problem to be solved”-like Maria in Sound of Music.  I even remember singing to the St. Joseph’s Carmelite nuns, from a ladder, as I enacted the theme song : “The hills are alive”. Little did I know it was the first scene to the screen-play that I would play-out throughout my entire life.
Now, my monastic experience was heart- wrenching but glorifying. Away from TV, radio, computer, newspaper or even books, with a vow of silence, poverty and obedience, I learned to wash, clean, mend and soothe my soul. My past Harvard aggrandizement of self-worth, mopped away. My years as a postulant, as a novice, and as a nun committed by marriage to God (in my Mother´s wedding dress) confronted me with the inner battle between my higher and lower selves. Everything became a metaphor: medieval ceremonies such as laying in meditation in a coffin, as a symbol for the need to die to the body in order to be reborn in spirit; old nuns in brown and black coiffures singing rocking songs to an enamel representation of Jesus, throughout the night; the intention of saving souls with every spot, obsessively cleaned…are memories that have rescued me from turmoil later in life. The grounding experience would have been enough to save me had I left, from my own free will. But my belief system (and cowardice to face life) was wired to have me play out the shame of having been ‘put out’. My restlessness could not be acquitted with self-flagellation; too much of a free thinker, too much of a dreamer.  Imagine the disgrace and drama of having been rejected not only by nuns but by God himself. ..paradise lost…and with it, the hope of being ‘good’. It just ratified that I was unworthy; painfully defeated as I witnessed my prince-charming’s marriage to someone better, when I returned.
Now these are examples of how we thread the canvas of our lives into self-built dramas; the threads of thought and their color are set by our beliefs and attitudes.
I won´t abound on the same dramatic pattern I have relived over and over again: my marriage to an older, wonderful man, defeated unto death by the guilt of his son’s suicide; my remarriage to a problem drinker, damaged by resentment against a mother who let her lover abuse his sister…
On and on… I have continued playing out the Impossible Dream, fighting ‘the unbeatable foe’ of AIDS, trying to ‘ right the un-rightable wrong’ even unto court, in an international white-collar scandal that deviated AIDS funds and unjustly blamed me ; fighting for women´s rights among sex-workers, and dignifying the right to love beyond color, race, sex, social institutions and even personal judgment. Love should not be erased by contract or divorce. Love is eternal and we should strive to strengthen its bonds, networking with good will. And yet, we are what we believe.

Now, none of this is true. Its a product of my own thought formation. We build associations with what we believe.

Check your own belief patterns. Which ones have molded your lives?

Be selective. Not all beliefs are bad. My heavenly husband still walks with me and despite my unworthiness, even gave me a late child born on Christmas Day.

Some beliefs do come true.