An Imaginative Retelling of the Christmas Story
Narrated by Gabriel, Joseph and Mary, Elizabeth, and the Innkeeper’s Wife
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MARY Delivers the Baby
Well, so much for my hopes of a basin of water in which to wash, and the warm meal prepared for me by someone else, and the comfortable bed to lie on and sleep and sleep and sleep. I would just have to settle for a damp cloth to wipe off a little of the grime, a few bites of the same dark bread and cheese, and a pile of hay.
Joseph brought in the pail of water and lit our lamp. He pulled a feedbox across the doorway, to help me feel safe, I think. This place was indeed a bit rough, but he was trying so hard! I couldn’t help but feel a little grateful for this place.
“Will you be all right, Mary, if I sleep?” he asked when it grew late.
“Of course, I’ll be all right. You need to rest. Go on, I’ll be fine.”
He stretched out on a pile of hay near me, and soon gentle snores told me he was fast asleep.
I did not sleep. I was tired, so tired, but the pains that had merely warned me earlier were now beginning in earnest. At first they were not too great—I still felt in control—and I told myself over and over again, “I can do this. I can birth this baby myself if it comes to that. God is with me. I can do this.”
Still determined not to waken Joseph, I lay quietly as long as I could, until the pains began to come with terrifying intensity and so frequently that there was hardly any rest between. I wept. I prayed. I cried out to my mother silently: “Oh Mother, where are you? Why are you not here when I need you? I’m dying, I know I am. Oh, I wish I could die! I’m afraid, so afraid . . .”
“Oh Joseph! Joseph, help me!” The cry finally burst from my lips without my willing it.
He was up and at my side instantly. “Mary, are you all right?”
“No, I’m not all right!” I screamed at him. “Oh, help me!” I panted. “The baby is coming.”
Joseph drew back, pale at the sight of the blood. “I’ll go for someone,” he said. “Maybe an innkeeper's wife nearby—“
“No! No! Don’t leave me!” I pleaded wildly. “It’s too late. Here, put your hands on the baby’s head . . .”
“Mary, I can’t—the Law, you know—I shouldn’t touch the blood—“
Through the haze of pain, I glared at him. So I was, after all, going to be quite alone in this wilderness of anguish. I wanted my parents, but they were far away, made distant by the miles and the misunderstandings between us. I wanted Joseph. He was here, so close I could hear him breathing—but still not here at all, caught up in a world of holy “rightness.” Fear and pain had swept control out of my hands. O God, I didn’t know it would be this hard! Help me!
One more time I told myself, “I will do this,” and with clenched teeth bore down hard.
And suddenly, Joseph was helping. He turned the baby’s head, told me to push again. Again. And then again. There was a cry of life, and he was lifting the tiny, red infant and smiling broadly at him. Solemn Joseph, absolutely grinning with love and wonder!
He laid his own coat on a fresh place in the hay, and when he had helped me move there, he gently laid the baby at my breast. Carefully I touched the little crown of dark fuzz on top of the baby’s head. “Oh Joseph, he’s perfect! I’m so proud of him!”
“Yes,” Joseph said, his voice taking on a tone of puzzlement. “But he’s just so—he’s just a little baby!”
I had to laugh, even though it made me hurt. “Of course, he’s a little baby. What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Someone, I guess, more—kingly.”
“With a crown and robes, I suppose!” I laughed again at the idea, and Joseph chuckled too before becoming serious again.
“I’m proud too, Mary,” he said. “Proud of the Baby. And proud of you,” and he tenderly stroked the sweat and tears from my face with his fingers.
I caught his hand and held it. “Thank you, Joseph. And thank you for helping. Even though the Law says . . . you know. . .“
“It was right to help the little one. And you.” He shrugged. “I can wash and be clean again, afterwards,” he said simply.
(To be continued)
MaryMartha
(All rights reserved)
Email: mrymrtha@gmail.com
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