Christmas Day 1989. I stood on a chair so my tiny six-year old hands could reach the kitchen counter. Into a big marigold yellow bowl plopped a cup of fine white flour. The fragrant dust rose up and tickled my nose. "Are you ready to crack the eggs?" My mother asked. Cracking eggs was my favorite part. I focused all my attention on not getting any shell pieces in the bowl. Crunchy chocolate chip cookies were something I didn't want to repeat. "Mom," I began. "Why can't we celebrate Christmas too? Like everyone else." She took a deep breath of patience. This was the merry-go-round conversation my mother and I had every year since I can remember. "Well, no one actually knows when Jesus was...
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