Apr 22

Apr 22 One Holy Night

Mother told me I shouldn’t make the trip. But we couldn’t risk the consequences of defying a command of Caesar.

“Joseph is a good man,” I told her. “He’ll take care of me.”

“What do men know of birthing a child?” she said, choking back tears.

She’d tried to prepare me as best she could. I had the bundle of swaddling clothes she had given me for the baby, the birthing blanket to put underneath me, and plenty of rags for my time of impurity.

Her description of the birth pangs was matter-of-fact, avoiding eye contact, as she packed my things. “Rest as much as you can between pains,” she said. “Save your energy for the delivery.”

‘I wish she were here,’ I thought, as my round belly felt the pressure mounting again.

But she wasn’t here. There was no one here to share in this moment but my husband, Joseph. Only our donkey shared our stall in the Bethlehem stable. The oxen and donkeys of other travelers filled the rest of the space, munching on their hay unconcerned.

Who would have guessed that I would deliver my child in Bethlehem, so far from home? Yet, it is just as the prophet Micah foretold. Centuries ago, he prophesied about the new ruler who would be sent to the Jews, a ruler whose origin stretched back to the beginning of time.

During our journey, Joseph often encouraged me with words of Isaiah, “Therefore the Lord himself shall give you a sign. Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel (God with us).”

“Water, Joseph. My mouth is dry.”

Joseph did his best to soothe me, reciting Psalms of comfort, reminding me that I carried a miracle child – a holy child, the Promised One.

I labored, as the Children of Israel have labored for centuries, trusting in the Promise. Finally, with one last push, my son came forth – wet and pink and tiny.

Joseph dampened the cleaning rags with water from the stable trough to wash him. His first cry broke the silence as the cool air stung his tender skin.

I marveled as I looked at him. So, small and vulnerable, so perfectly beautiful.

Tears wet my cheeks.

Who was I to bring the Holy One into this world, to be entrusted with his care and safety? Why would God choose to bring his Messiah into the world in a stable? Why not the learned hands of a rabbi rather than the rough hands of a carpenter to lead him?

I looked at my husband, the man who had chosen to walk with me on this journey despite the whispers and disrespect we endured. He too, had been visited. He too, had accepted the will of God for us.

In all the Passovers I had celebrated, as inspiring as they were, never had I experienced such a sense of God’s holy presence. There were no words worth speaking. Not even the psalms of David could express the sense of wonder and joy that enveloped us.

This innocent child washed away the difficulties of our journey. Yet, we know, the true journey has just begun.