There’s not much that’s silent about motherhood. Since becoming a mother myself, I chuckle at the phrase “silent night, holy night” in the beloved hymn.

During our difficult journey to have children, I dreamed of the days I could sit in perfect stillness with a small baby snuggled up against me. What I didn’t realize is that caring for a baby is more often like survival mode—lots of crying, panicked soothing, body aching from lack of sleep, playing guessing games and tiptoeing once the baby does fall asleep.

I look at the Christmas story much differently now as a mother. I doubt Mary had many quiet moments between swaddling and nursing and taking care of a very newborn baby Jesus. That’s not to mention the chorus of animals and unexpected visitors that undoubtedly made their own noisy interruptions.

As I chase around my own 15-month-old while also eight months pregnant this Christmas, I take great comfort in knowing I’m not alone in the chaos and lack-of-silence.

Maybe your Christmas hasn’t been very “silent” either. The Christmas parties to attend and host, the gifts to buy and wrap, the treats to make and sample, the family visiting from near and far, trying to remember that one thing you just know you’ve forgotten—it can all seem never ending. You may even wonder where you have the time or capacity to fit God into your celebrations.

Yet the beauty of that Christmas night, just like the beauty of our own lives, doesn’t have to be summed up by silence alone. The truth is, if we’re looking for a “silent” night to pave the way to experience God personally, we may never find it.

But here’s what’s brought me comfort this year: our God works in the middle of that chaos, in the middle of the noisiness and frustrations and the unexpected, to bring a kind of awestruck wonder that can only be described as “holy.” In fact, He did it that very Christmas night, in a Plan Z stable far from home with confusing circumstances and an unknown future for Mary. Those were the circumstances He saw fit to bring His Son—our Savior—into the world.

That night Jesus was born—and the ones that proceeded it—were likely not easy for Mary. After all, she wasn’t raising just any baby. But she pushed through the pain, the travel, the guessing games, the tears shed, because she was seeking something greater.

Perhaps God is using these loud and exhausting moments to help even me understand that it’s not the silence I crave as much as the holiness of the Christ child who is with me through it all. His gift of salvation to me is unlike anything I have ever experienced. I never want to lose sight of that.

And perhaps your moments, no matter how un-silent they are, can be “holy” or “set apart” in powerful ways this Christmas, too. It all starts with a shift in perspective and a willingness to submit it all—the good, the bad, and the ugly, to our Heavenly Father.

It may not be a silent night, but it can still be a holy one.