By now, I’m sure I took a wrong turn somewhere.
I try to remember where I was coming from, and where I was
going. My past is a foggy memory, and my life seems removed. Irrelevant.
So I travel this path, dark and dusty and rocky. My moccasin
slippers seem ill-equipped for the stones and the hills. I see dim lights
ahead—some sort of small town? I wouldn’t be able to see anything if it weren’t
for the sky. I’ve never seen such a brilliant sky at night, not even out in the
middle of nowhere where all the stars that usually hide reveal their presence.
There’s one star that’s particularly bright. If I’m not
crazy, it seems to be pointing downward—as an arrow? This is a strange night
and a strange place. A prickly sensation passes over me. I would suspect a
dream, but it’s so real. I feel a chill in the night air. I smell something
smoky, like the remains of a bonfire at a campground. I turn and view a logical
world, as far as my eyes can see. This isn’t the nonsensical meanderings of a
sleeping brain carrying out the day’s thought garbage. I can hear the bleating
of sheep on a nearby hill. The leaves of the trees rustle with whispers when
the wind gently pushes their branches.
Beyond that, it is a silent night.
What else can I do? I follow the star. It appears to be
pointing at the little village anyway. I reach the outskirts of the small town
and wonder where I might find a place to wait out the night until I can figure
out how to get home. Somehow, I have stepped into a story. I have been brought
here to remember.
“Perhaps a journey every soul must take,” I whisper.
I see movement in a small cave with a rickety shed built
over the entrance. I feel a holy pull and I step forward, my heart racing and
my soul sensitive with passion, because by now I’ve recognized the significance
of where I am. I can’t get to the stable fast enough.
Are you here? My
spirit calls to him, my eyes flood with tears and the hair rises on my arms as
a chill passes over me. Are you really
here?
I almost forget there are others present who do not see this
night as a memory. I stop in respect and allow the young man and the girl in
the corner to see me before I interrupt.
“Good evening,” I say in a reverent voice, for my eyes have
found beauty. To one not paying attention, he might look like any other
newborn, with red, wrinkled skin and a head of dark hair. His blinking brown
eyes view his world for the first time.
But he is the loveliest sight to me, and before I realize
what I am doing, I’ve dropped to my knees. My head is bowed. It is the only
response that feels appropriate.
They seem to understand. The man smiles tentatively and
beckons me closer. The girl—I suppose I never realized how young she really was
until I see the light in her eyes, barely more than a child. Younger than me by
decades. She is uncertain and awkward in her movements as she holds the baby. I
feel a wave of empathy and sit next to her, touching her shoulder. It is thin
and small.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “You’re going to do a great job,
Mary.”
For some reason, she understands my words, and I understand
hers, though she answers in a different tongue. I praise the Keeper of this
vision for allowing me to know her heart.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice high and quiet. “He is a
beautiful child, no?”
“The most beautiful I have ever seen, and I have four of my
own,” I say with a smile. I have a motherly reaction to the naivety I recognize
in her features. I ask after her condition, glad to see things have been cared
for and she is holding the baby against her chest and under her coarse cloak where
he will be able to stay warm.
“The midwife came and saw to things,” Joseph explains. He
moves away, reclining in the straw, exhausted. His eyes close and in seconds he
is softly snoring.
“It has been a long night.” Mary looks at her husband with
sympathy. “He has taken care of me. He is a good man.”
“A good man makes all the difference,” I say with
understanding, before my eyes return to the baby’s face.
I am unable to speak and overcome with awe. I can only watch
him for what seems like hours. Finally I make myself break the silence because
I have to speak the question. A question that is nearly cliché in the holiday
season, but here, it cuts through my heart with meaning.
“Do you know, Mary? Do you know who this is?”
She turns wide brown eyes on me. She nods. “This is the
Messiah.”
She whispers it; as if she’s afraid I will reprimand her for
being foolish. Little does she know.
“Do you know what this little Messiah is going to do for us?”
I dare to reach out a finger and touch the little fist that has broken from its
wrapping and gives an unsteady wave. The tiny fingers wrap around mine and hold
fast. He grabs hold of my soul at the same time, and I almost can’t breathe
with the love that comes over me—but not my love for him. His love for me.
“He’s going to save us.” Mary’s voice holds an element of
fear. She must truly have an idea of the true nature of the saving, though her
people believe the Messiah will be a political conqueror who releases them from
their bondage. I search her somber eyes and think she knows more than she is
confident enough to say. But what mother would want to say it? She has just
experienced the powerful nature of love that gripped her body, mind and being.
It is the gift of God—the protective blessing of a mother’s love.
But Mary’s mother-love won’t be able to protect forever. I
suspect she knows that.
I reach for her shoulders, intent that she hear my words.
How many times had I longed for a chance to return in time and speak to her? “Mary,
I’m so thankful for you, and that you are willing to do this. To spend your all
on this little one, knowing he belongs to the whole world, and to all of time
and eternity. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be you right now, knowing
the price of our sin, knowing God is hiding somewhere in that bit of baby
flesh. God is going to get you through this. He’s going to give you exactly as
much grace as you need to do this. And we’ll all be thanking you thousands of
years after you’ve done it.”
She lifts eyes brimming with tears. I sense she understands.
She gives a quick nod. We sit in silence after that. Shepherds come and go, and
Joseph wakes to check on them. Eventually dawn begins a tug of war with the
light of the star, and inevitably the sun wins the battle.
When day comes, Joseph packs their belongings and prepares
to move his family out of the stable. Their day will be routine, dull and
irritating. They will wait in lines to register and pay taxes to a king who
doesn’t care about them. They will find a place to stay. In a few days they
will walk into the temple and have their son dedicated. In the meantime there
will be meals to fix and fires to build and animals to care for. They will talk
about money, about travel plans, about friends and family they have left back
home. They will make decisions about what to do to care for the little Messiah
who has been sent, for whatever divine reason, into their humble, struggling family.
But Mary will know the whole time. She will see that dark
spot on the horizon, and she will be altered because of it. How could she not?
I see her ultimate sacrifice, and though it will pale in comparison to the suffering
destined to come upon him, hers will not be small or trite.
“Thank you,” I say one more time before they walk away. I go
back the way I came, toward the place where vision meets dream, and dream meets
waking, safe and sound in my own comfortable bed.
I remember the last glance I stole of my Savior. I know they
say newborns don’t smile.
But that one did.
