Lo and behold it is the eve of my savior's birthday and I have spent the majority of the day insuring that even the soles of my Seattle feet receive sunlight. I am a glutton for vitamin D, although heat rash punishes me and I could be singing minor key hymns for a birth that seems farther away than ever. Which, in a way, it is--in terms of years past and so forth. But I think the distance for me is new. Upon this clownish inflatable i have been lulled to the strange intersection of truth and custom where i lay floundering in the wake of unwanted change. In this heated winter, in this vacation to the other slice of the world I have gained the unpleasant knowledge that Jesus did not have blonde hair. Along with this shock, I have been recently informed that there was no snow in Bethlehem that fateful night. And as I lay awake, listening to the sound of crickets, confused roosters and lively townsfolk, it occurs to me that our beloved was not kept awake by the anticipation of papa Noel, but by the ancestors of those very same crickets that interrupt my dreams so screechingly.

Where is the tree? My heart asks. Where is the Christmas program of mumbling children and the goodies that insulate my body for the bleak midwinter? Where is the Amy Grant and the Mannheim Steamroller and the Trans Siberian Orchestra? Even some cheesy movies of wonderful life would be welcome to convince me that Jesus can still fit into my paradigm. And yet here I am, mourning the loss of things that shouldn't be significant in the slightest. Here I have spent my entire life thinking that I knew the real meaning of Christmas, when I have only ever understood Jesus in terms of a snowy night filled with anticipation.

Here, in this small Mexican beach town devoid of cold and filled with blended drinks, I could not feel farther from christmas. And yet I could hardly be closer to the truth.

The hotels, motels, and inns are all full. The nights here are filled with stars, and I can always find my way north like a modern and less insightful magi. I have ridden a horse for an hour and it wasn't quite like the journey to Bethlehem, but it made me sore as hell and thankful that I wasn't riding sideways/ pregnant/15. I have seen all sorts of livestock and I can tell you that they smell and that I wouldn't want to bunk with them, let alone give a virgin birth in the stench of their muck. I have seen devoted fathers who work hard to provide for their families, even when times are uncertain and their pride is at stake. I have seen courageous mothers pull their children away from fighting dogs and teach them about ones duty to respect. Traveling beach vendors act as sheppards to lost tourists. There may not be a trough, but the living conditions of our neighbors gives a nod to the glorified stable. I have yet to encounter an angel overhead, but there have been times when my cousin looked at me and I swear she was channeling light. And tonight I will wrap myself in a sheet like the nights before, only this time it will be a swaddling cloth.

Over piña coladas and hot sand, I have found my real meaning of Christmas.

Jesus was not conventional, nor was he properly expected. He did not arrive in a sleigh or demand a tree or conduct songs about himself with tiny infant hands. He never saw snow and might have even been reprimanded as a toddler. He gave the greatest gift mankind has ever received and was slaughtered for it. He did not speak English, he knew nothing of the existence of north america, and he took naps unabashedly. He was born--in filth, for filth--with only the arms of a young mother, the voice of a scared shitless father, and the sheppards of some bewildered livestock to greet him.

And that, my friends, is the glorious point.

So thank you God for the unconventional Christmas we get to celebrate here, and for that first Christmas that changed it all. Felis Navidad, Jesus. Felis Navidad.