The Christmas Journey (5 page)

T
he westering sun
breathes a final sigh, escaping with the last glints of light. Joseph’s nerves are on edge as he seeks lodging. His feet are blistered and sore and Mary is exhausted. The contractions started growing closer together hours ago, and she is nearing the end of her strength. Mary is jostled and bumped as Joseph inches his way through the congested street. The crush of the crowd pushes them forward at a pace that frightens Mary.

People are bustling outside the inn, and Joseph leaves her alone on the donkey as he presses his way to the door.

A
beggar reaches
for Joseph’s arm, but someone pushes the old man out of the way. Joseph raps on the door and can hear commotion behind it. He knocks louder, and a harried man with a pale face opens the door.

“There is no room,” he says, before Joseph can speak. Joseph peers around him and sees that the inn is so bloated with people that some are lying on the floor or curled up on the stairs. The innkeeper and Joseph stare at each other in clumsy silence before Joseph thanks him and turns to leave, shaking his head at Mary. Her face is stricken as she holds her stomach. Her water has broken, and it won’t be long before the baby comes.

“You,” the innkeeper says. Joseph turns to look at him. “You can stay there,” the innkeeper says, pointing to his stable in the hillside. “My guests’ animals are inside, but if you can find a space among them, you are welcome to it.”

J
oseph surveys the
busy street and realizes there is no place for them to go. He looks at Mary and she nods; they have no other option. “Thank you. We’ll take it,” he tells the innkeeper.

W
hen Joseph opens
the stable door, the stench of hot, sweaty animals and manure assaults them. He hesitates for a moment—this is no place for a birth—but Mary groans, her face twisting in agony.

J
oseph helps her
off the donkey and holds an oil lamp the innkeeper has given them to guide Mary into the stable.

T
he darkened barn
frightens him; Mary might stumble and fall. The lamp he carries is barely enough light to read by let alone usher in the birth of the Christ child.

S
heep scatter throughout the
stable as he leads Mary inside; a disgruntled cow stamps her foot and lifts her tail to urinate. Donkeys kick at the stable wall and bray, their breath coming out in puffy clouds of mist.

J
oseph spots an
empty space against the back wall that will have to serve as the birthing room. Mary can rest there. He helps her to the floor, and she leans her head against the earthen wall, her back aching from carrying the weight of the world in her womb. This is a dismal place for a woman no older than a child to give birth to a child. She hadn’t imagined this pain when she told the angel she was the Lord’s servant.

“
M
ay it be
to me as you have said,” she had told him.

She moans; the contractions are growing closer together now. Outside, the shadows grow still and deepen more as the agony of life awakens the night.