The
donkey’s small hoof clinked against a stone, sending a puff of dust over the
man’s wooden sandals as he trudged the well-traveled ridge route to the small
Jewish village of Bethlehem
On
the donkey’s back, a girl swayed from side-to-side, one hand clinging to the
veil covering her dark hair. Her head sagged and she closed her eyes for a
moment. Seventy miles, the journey, and so near the time of her delivery. The
month-long journey had provided little time to rest, and few trees to shelter them
from the full sun. When the donkey stumbled, the girl groaned, quickly biting
her lip to check the sound.
Her
husband, Joseph, clenched the lead rope with a white-knuckle grip. He paused to
brush a pebble from his sandal and straightened, scanning the trail for bandits
or wild dogs. Satisfied that no danger threatened, he glanced at the setting
sun and urged the donkey on. His ears caught the slight, almost inconsequential
sound of his wife’s distress and his lips tightened in agony. “What is it,
Little Mother?”
The
girl offered a timid smile in response. “Husband, it is nothing. A tiny pain.
God eases my burden.”
Joseph growled his displeasure into the cowl
of his cloak. “Wife, you should not be here. The Romans are cruel to demand
this journey. I would have spared you this.” His husky voice barely concealed
his displeasure, but he would not burden her with his fears. His thoughts
returned to their predicament and he paled. “A tiny pain, you say?” He moved to
stand beside her, concern in the lines that marked his face from years of desert
living. Many years older than his young bride, he felt as insignificant as a
grain of sand when he judged his worth against hers and the child she carried.
The thought consumed him, night and day: Yahweh would never forgive him if
anything happened on this difficult journey. That she suffered because of a
Roman tyrant’s census to count Jewish heads filled him with despair. He lifted
his hand to touch hers, but withdrew when he saw her eyes flutter closed. “Tell
me what I should do,” he pleaded.
The
girl, Mary, released her hold on the donkey to cradle his face between her
hands. She buried her fingers in his thick, untrimmed beard, now tangled and
filthy from dust and sweat, and Joseph felt the tension ease from his weary
muscles. Her face held a look of gentle acceptance that made his fear seem
inconsequential. It was impossible to fret when her quiet faith sustained them.
“You
have done so much,” she murmured. “Yahweh is pleased with you, my husband.
Joseph
returned to the trail, filled with resolve.
From
behind, the jingling of bells and a shouted warning caused him to quickly tug
his donkey to the side of the road. A caravan of camels trotted past, carrying strange-looking
men in rich clothing. Their features marked them as foreigners, with their dark
skin and almond-shaped eyes. Each was dressed distinctly, with turbans and
long, flowing robes spun, it was said, by silk worms in the distant East. Even
the camels were garbed in tassels and bells, with thick padded saddles trimmed
in gold and magenta, colors that he had seen only in the Temple
on the holiest of days. A supply caravan trailed behind, fifty camels led by
servants in finely woven livery. Joseph
kept his eyes downcast as the soft grunts and dust clouds filled the air. Even
Mary seemed entranced at the splendor.
“Princes
of the East,” he whispered. “I wonder what brings them to Judah ?”
The
mounted foreigners shared the trail without the pageantry and rudeness of other
high officials that Joseph had encountered on this trip. More like scholars
than soldiers, he observed.
Soon
they were alone again. Many of the travelers had stopped to make camp on the
outskirts of Jerusalem , five miles
back, but Joseph hurried on. No matter that Mary tried to hide her pains, his
mother-in-law, Anne, had told him what to expect and he knew that his wife’s
time was near. As they had prepared to leave, Joachim, his father-in-law,
pressed his hand with a deep, penetrating look of anguish for his daughter. He
had wanted to share the secret the angel had brought, but a stern frown from
his young wife reminded him of the angel’s warning of secrecy. No one must know, not even Mary’s parents,
the precious burden that their daughter carried.
“I
should walk a bit and give the poor donkey a rest,” Mary offered.
“Keep
your seat, Little Mother. His burden is nothing—like a single orange blossom.
He doesn’t even know you are along.” Joseph’s gentle tone rang with humor.
“A
single blossom? You have walked too long in the heat, my husband. I feel as
laden as an orange tree ready for harvest.”
They
shared gentle laughter. Mary took a tighter hold on the donkey’s stubby mane as
the narrow trail opened onto a rocky field planted in olive groves. Ahead,
scattered campfires twinkled in the distance.
“Bethlehem ,”
Joseph murmured. Although the city of his birth, it had been many years since
he had returned. In the clearness of the desert air the town seemed a stone’s
throw away, but he had spent his life in the desert and he was not deceived.
The hour would be late when they arrived, but he knew that Yahweh would provide
a place for them. Still, a great stone would be rolled from his mind when he
had Mary settled in a comfortable kahn; an
inn provided for strangers would provide privacy and a midwife to attend the
birth. He would sacrifice his cloak to the innkeeper as payment for his wife’s
comfort, his beautiful cloak, its four blue tassels, one on each corner,
stitched by his wife in preparation for this journey. This was what he had
decided.
“I
will find an inn,” he vowed, half to himself. His hand moved along the donkey’s
neck and captured Mary’s small fingers. So young, he thought. So pure. So good.
She had never once complained on this journey, even as she had accepted the
shame and gossip that she suffered in Nazareth
when her pregnancy became known. True, they had been engaged, considered as
good as married in the Jewish way, but even he had doubted her. He shook his
head to clear the torment, recalling the days and weeks of anguish he had spent
wondering at Mary’s unexplained pregnancy when he had never laid with her. It
was not until Yahweh sent the angel Gabriel to explain and to seek his cooperation, that he was able to believe his
Mary again.
When
she returned from visiting her cousin Elizabeth, a journey of nearly a hundred
miles, Mary, in her customary way, had seen his sorrow. There was nothing to
forgive, she had insisted.
Although
they had spoken of the matter, he had labored in his carpentry shop, trying
with every pounding of his hammer to make sense of this matter. He spent long
hours on his knees each night pleading to Yahweh for understanding while Mary
slept alone in her small alcove. He prayed to be worthy to raise this unborn
child who was his stepson, even though he was, himself, unworthy. He had
descended from Solomon, who had sinned. Mary held the greater claim, descended
from Nathan, who had not sinned. He prayed that he would be strong and
worthy.
As
though she read his mind, Mary spoke. “A woman’s pain is like making a
sacrifice at the Temple . It is my
thanksgiving for the gift that Yahweh will bestow on us. I am glad to offer
it—the pain.”
“Little
Mother, it is obvious why Yahweh chose you from all time to carry His child.”
As always, Joseph felt his knees weaken at the task he had been given. “He will
provide a room for the birth,” he repeated.
The
town had settled into sleep when the exhausted donkey limped down the
cobblestone path. At the first inn, Joseph halted and knocked on a solid plank
door. After several minutes a man appeared, his night garb illuminated by an
olive-oil lamp in his hand.
“We
have no room. Let a man sleep. Look about you. Do you think you’re the only
travelers tonight with the need of a room?”
Joseph
had pulled his cloak from his shoulders, in preparation for the exhange. Now he
stood uncertainly, feeling the strain of disbelief that this could be
happening. “But my wife. . . she is—”
The
door slammed, rattling the lintel and the frame before Joseph could finish, and
he turned back toward Mary, his eyes downcast in shame.
“Husband,
you must not mind him.”
Joseph
shook his head, feeling like a fool. He had never stayed at an inn before, had
only heard tales from others of how to conduct himself. Of course the night was
late and the inn keepers were sleeping. But surely Yahweh would provide a
suitable place for His own son. Joseph must find it.
Turning
to the next inn, he knocked again.
Down
the small street he continued, knocking and being turned away from the khans
where travelers overflowed into the crowded streets. No one wanted to hear
about his pregnant wife. At the last inn, Joseph knocked louder than before. A
shutter opened from above and a tired voice called down, “No room. Can’t you
see the lamps are out? Go away.” Joseph stood, silent and troubled in the dark
street. The innkeeper paused behind the half-closed shutter. He saw Mary and
called, “Wait a moment.” Joseph heard the heavy bolt sliding in its holder and he
knew that he had found a room. The innkeeper emerged and his eyes swept over
Mary, who dozed atop the donkey. “Your wife is in late days.”
“Yes,
we need a room. She will deliver soon. This is a special baby.” Joseph could
say no more. His heart was thumping against his chest. Please, let it be here, he silently prayed.
“I’m
sorry. I have no room for even one small woman. If I did, I would give it to
you. But there is a place. . . if you’re not particular. It’s warm and clean.
And private.” The innkeeper glanced again at Mary.
“We’ll
take it. Anything.” Joseph glanced about, hoping for a private home.
“There’s
a small stable, a cave where I keep my animals. At the edge of town . . . over
there.” The innkeeper pointed. “Use it with my blessing, and may Yahweh be with
you.”
Mary
woke to hear this last. “Yahweh is with us, always. It is good, husband. A
stable. Let us go see.”
Joseph
walked for several steps until he was out of the hearing of the innkeeper, who
had already disappeared inside. He slung his cloak back over his shoulders,
secretly glad for the warmth on this chilly night, but his ears still stung
with the words of the innkeeper. “This is what Yahweh wants for his child? To
be born in a stable? This child should be born in the richest house in the
city. In the Temple , itself. We
should go forth and present our situation to the people. Surely someone has
been directed to give up their home for the birth of this God-child. A stable?”
His voice was angry. There had been so little direction from the angel. No one
had forewarned him of this journey, or his role in caring for the child. What
was he to do? Surely Yahweh would be angered if he, Joseph of the House of
David, could find nothing better than a stable among the lowest animals for His
son. Tears of frustration gathered in his weary eyes. Not for Yahweh’s child, a
stable. Never.
“Let
us go and see. Do not worry, Husband.”
His
heart filled with grief, Joseph silently led the donkey down the narrow street
in the direction the innkeeper had pointed.
The
stable was not hard to find. A group of men had camped nearby and their
campfire lit the small enclosure burrowed into the limestone hill. Joseph
halted, hopelessness stealing his speech.
“Shalom,
pilgrim. Will you join us for a drink?” one of the rowdy men called, offering
his chalice with a swagger.
Joseph
shook his head and met the man’s gaze with a weary reply. “I think not. We must
be on our way.”
The
man glanced at Mary and scrambled to his feet. He stared for a long moment then
half-turned toward where the others lay laughing and drinking on their cloaks
and bed rolls.
“Come,
let us leave our camp for these travelers. They have more need of it than we
do.” Amid groans and complaints, he gathered their things and hurried his group
away, their drunken sounds disappearing into the darkness.
Joseph
looked around. The cave was warm and sheltered from the night air and the
animals lent a musky, not unwelcome aroma. Against his will, he decided to make
camp. At least until he could locate a kinsman with a room to share. In their
haste, the men had left a gourd filled with water, and the remains of a bird
still sizzling on the fire spit. Silently, he helped Mary from the donkey and
into the stable. Fresh forage was piled at one end, out of reach of an ass, and
an ox quietly chewing its cud. To one side an empty feed crib lay overturned on
the ground. Joseph straightened it and returned to unpack their bedding and
supplies.
Mary
drank water from the gourd. Wordlessly, they dined on the remains of the bird,
the sheaves of unleavened bread that she kept wrapped in a linen cloth, and a
few dates and figs they had purchased that day from a vendor near Jerusalem .
Then Mary lay back to rest.
“Husband?”
She murmured in a sleepy, sated voice.
“Hmmm?”
“My
spirit rejoices here. Do you feel it?”
“Yes,
Little Mother, I feel it. Perhaps Yahweh wants us to rest here until someone
offers their house. Some midwife, perhaps. We will wait here and see.” He
turned to frown at the few lights that flickered in the darkened town while he
chewed thoughtfully on a date.
Mary’s
groan interrupted his silence. “Joseph. . . it is time.”
He
struggled to his feet, looking frantically about for someone to assist in this
most important birth. He was a clumsy carpenter, good with a hammer and adz,
but not with his precious Mary’s birthing. In their village, the women assisted
in the births. “I will go for help.”
Mary’s
face was pale and exhausted, but filled with resolve. “Husband, there is no
time. You will help me. Remember the angel Gabriel? All will go well, my
husband. Yahweh chose you to be my midwife.”
Despite
the chilliness of the night, sweat beaded his brow and dripped into his eyes.
His hands trembled from fear. Thoughts tumbled over each other until, finally,
he allowed himself to speak what was foremost on his mind. “You and I have not
been together as man and wife. I have never seen you. . . in that way. You are
a modest woman. A woman chosen by God. How am I to assist in such a . . .
personal matter?”
“Husband
. . . ask Yahweh to guide your hands. He will hear your prayers this night of
all nights. He is with us in all ways.”
Mary’s
quiet confidence seeped into his blood and he rushed to retrieve the rags she
had packed for this hour, and the gourd of water waiting near the fire. He
spread fresh straw for her bed and after that there was nothing for him to do
but wait and pray.
Mary
endured the pain of childbirth with peaceful acceptance while angels warmed the
room with their fluttering wings.
Finally,
trembling at the miracle he witnessed, Joseph gently placed a baby boy in her
arms.
The
cave was lit with a glow more powerful than the mere oil lamp he carried.
Joseph marveled at the aura of light that came from the Child, from its tiny
naked body that Mary now worked to swaddle.
“Let
me help you with that, Little Mother.” His huge, calloused hands seemed to have
a will of their own as he quietly sponged the baby with warm oil then helped to
wrap the swaddling cloth about the baby’s perfect limbs.
Mary
watched her baby’s tiny arms thrashing as she secured the wrapping cloth. “My
soul magnifies the Creator who has given me His son. Emmanuel. The angel said
we were to name him Emmanuel. Oh, truly, Yahweh honors me with this precious
gift.”
Mary’s
weariness, her gladness lent softness to her face. Joseph, watching, felt great
love for her. “Sleep now, Little Mother.” He smiled. “At last I can truly call
you that.”
The
hour was late when Joseph slipped outside to stir the fire, careful that no
wild dogs hovered in the shadows. Inside, the ox softly lowed and moved against
the side of the cave, its sweet animal scent mixing with that of the straw.
Overhead, something drew his eyes up and he saw a star shining with blinding
intensity against the blackness of the sky, until the star’s tail seemed to
descend into the very cave itself—surely a sign from the Heavens that this was
the most special of all nights.
In
the distance, a caravan of camels advanced, illuminated by the star’s light.
Behind them, lowly shepherds approached, struggling under the load of
half-grown lambs they carried. Joseph stiffened and reached for the stout
walking stick that accompanied him on this journey, for protection against wild
animals and robbers. He retreated back inside the cave and stood protectively alongside
his family while the caravan approached.
In
the moments that he waited for the visitors, God’s presence filled the cave and
he released his firm grip on his staff. Confidence swelled inside him, and
humility. He prayed silently, a promise to serve in whatever humble manner was
required of a carpenter poor in goods, but richer than the kings and wise men
that were approaching.
Maybe
the foreigners understood, for their servants carried ornate chests filled with
gifts for the baby.
Mary’s
steadying voice assured him that she, too, felt the change. “It is good,
husband. All of this.” She shifted her veil to cover her hair, careful that she
was modest in all manner, but she spared no thought for her own vanity. “Who
are they, Joseph?”
Joseph
shook his head. Important travelers,
he thought. “Princes from the East. Magi,” he said aloud.
He
waited as they approached, and his greeting was firm and sure. “Shalom, my
noble guests. You are welcome on this night of nights.” We have nothing to offer, he thought. And then he turned to where
his guests were bowing to the child lying in the clean hay lining the feed
crib. His eyes filled with tears and his hand gripped his staff while resolve
filled his blood and the skies filled with the hosannas of the angels.
Tonight a king is born in a stable. He
shook his head, dazed at the night’s events, for the ways of Yahweh were too
wondrous to ponder. He was but a simple carpenter, a middle-aged man with
little education. Why the Creator would choose the humble life that he, Joseph,
could offer His son filled him with confusion. He gazed at his little family
and his heart burst with love for mother and child.
