Beneath the flowy blue fabric of her long tunic, her belly is hard to miss.

"We've been waiting and trying for four years," said her husband, a bearded man with unrelenting optimism, energy and sweet eyes that sparkle when he talks about becoming a father any day now.

It's been four months since they began their journey through dust and deserts, relentless heat and the kind of damp cold you can't shake. They stayed in tents, slept on cots and moved between cramped hotel rooms.

All along, they followed the incandescent promise of a new life in America and a safe future for their child. "Those were distressful days," he said. "Some people gave up and went back to Kabul. We were told we'd be in the United States in three days. But it took more than a month."

When Kabul fell after U.S. troops withdrew from Afghanistan and chaos took over, the man knew he was the only one in his family — the only one who made a career working for the United States as an engineer — who was in immediate danger.

(We are not naming them for that reason, and for the safety of those they left behind. )

The couple took the chance on what was supposed to be an easy, three-day trip to America. Instead, it became a month-long slog, in some cases with barely enough to eat.

The journey ended in December in a Maryland suburb. The two are thrilled they found an apartment. They're grateful that the United States kept its promise to get them out — and that they avoided places with dust and hot sun and the Islamophobia they've read about.

The couple left behind everything — the huge family, the multigenerational house with overflowing flower and vegetable gardens, their good jobs and all their plans. He defended his master's thesis the day Kabul fell. She has spent years in medical school studying to become a cardiologist. They'll have to start all of that over. Alone.

"In Afghanistan, there would be 100 people in the house the day he comes," the man said. "Now it is just us. Just two people and a baby."

But lo, the coming arrival of the new boy was announced to certain inboxes around the region. And the people came, bearing gifts. And because most of them were wise women, the gifts were practical: baby clothes and kitchen utensils, linens, teacups and beds. Forget frankincense. What baby needs that?

"Each time I dropped off items, I was overwhelmed by their gratitude and calm demeanor," said Wise Woman No. 1, Julie Garel. "Their courage and conviction that all would be well was a gift to me.

Garel, 60, saw the list her organization created didn't include baby items. "We attempted to anticipate some of their needs," she said. "I delivered lots of diapers, baby shampoo and a baby blanket used by my children many years ago." She threw in her father's household tool kit and night lights — gifts far more useful than myrrh.

Wise Woman Keryn brought the Afghan spices they would need to cook the food of home: garam masala, cumin seed, cardamom pods, cinnamon sticks. And she brought prayer rugs.

Wise Woman Karen donated dressers, a sofa, a dining room table and chairs, among other furnishings. Wise Woman Susan brought large serving platters. Wise Woman Erica brought them a hot meal.

The wise women (and men, too) connect through KindWorks, a Bethesda-based nonprofit that does immediate, pragmatic and impactful work. Their signature action is refugee home setups.

Here is that true meaning of the Christmas season we moan for in our annual lament about commercialization of the holiday.

The Afghan couple has been watching their first American Christmas season unfurl and sparkle around them. All the blinking lights and red and green and the sales and the shopping were a little overwhelming for them, they admit. They're not Christian, but they know the basics of the original Christmas story, the one about the pregnant woman and the foreign land and the gifts from the visitors.

And they know this: The knocks every day announcing more gifts, the welcoming hugs are what the season is really supposed to be about.

Petula Dvorak is a columnist for The Washington Post.