The Christmas Journey Read online

  “May 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.

  As Joseph tries to keep the oil lamp lit, Mary grabs his hand. “Joseph, hurry! Find what you can.” Grabbing the lamp, he leaves Mary alone in the darkness. He stumbles through the stable and spots a trough that could serve as a bed, and the hay that the sheep are sleeping on could do as bedding—but there are no blankets!

  He whirls around, searching the pens and walls. What can he use for blankets? His robe would have to work for now. He pulls it off as a contraction seizes Mary. Her scream pierces the night. “Joseph, I need you! Please, Joseph! Hurry!” She tries to pull herself upright in a squatting position, but her legs tremble beneath her, forcing her on her back.

  Another scream brings Joseph running from the watering trough, cold water spilling over the bucket rim. The Light of the World pushes his way into the darkness as Joseph rushes to help. As he sets the lamp down, Joseph’s heart pounds with uncertainty and his hands tremble. He has seen the birth of many animals but never that of a child. Mary cries and pushes her elbows into the ground. She grabs at dirt, straw, anything she can clutch in her hands. Joseph coaches as best he knows how: wiping sweat from her brow and guiding the baby out, but Mary is tired; her strength is nearly gone. “Can you push again?” Joseph asks, holding the baby’s head in his hands.

  She shakes her head. “I cannot,” she screams. Her hair sticks to the perspiration on her face, and streams of sweat pour over her neck and chest.

  “You must,” he pleads. “You must try!”

  She pushes with what seems to be little result, her cries rising above those of the animals. Joseph urges her to keep pushing, keep pushing. And with one final cry of anguish and a push, her labor is over.

  Immanuel is here.

  His skin is light. The olive color would appear slowly in the weeks to come. His head is misshapen from being pushed through the birth canal. His body is red, blotchy, covered with mucus. Is this truly the Son of the Almighty God, screaming now as his earthly father smacks his bottom? Joseph uses some of the animals’ rags and wipes off the slippery fluid, then swaddles the baby in dry ones. Mary lies on the stable floor, trying to catch her breath. The Messiah’s cries are louder now.

  Mary reaches for her newborn, and Joseph clumsily hands him to her. “Shh, shh, shh,” she says, laying him on her chest and guiding his tiny head to find what he is looking for. Is this the same voice that had spoken the world into existence…whimpering now at the breast of a maidservant? Mary caresses his face and counts each finger on his tiny hand. And hands that once placed the stars in the sky and sculpted magnificent landscapes grasp her finger. Mary secrets away each movement and sound and scent in her heart. He looks up, and eyes that saw her before she was born strain to see his mother. She laughs as his tiny mouth turns up into a slight crescent. The face of God smiling. Mary kisses his forehead and holds him closer. Deity swaddled in the arms of humanity.

  Joseph sits in the silence and watches. His face is weathered and flushed. There was a time, at the beginning of the pregnancy that he wanted to walk away. But after the angel spoke with him, he knew he should stay, and now, looking at his wife and son, the depths of his heart swell to the surface and his eyes blur. This is he of whom the prophets spoke, seeking nourishment from his mother. Stretching before them is a new life, together as a family, filled with first words, first laughs, and first steps. He would teach his son how to plane a piece of wood and hold a hammer, just as his father had taught him. God’s Son would grow up with the smell of sawdust in his nostrils. Joseph’s chest pounds with the wonder and mystery of it all. He comes closer, holding Mary in his arms, and together they look at this baby…Jesus, who opens his mouth in a yawn.

  The Savior is sleepy.

  In an incomprehensible, humbling move, the Son of God left the majestic splendor of heaven and stepped down into our world to become an infant, to become a man. There were no royal robes or parades, no trumpeted arrival. At a birth where there should have been the finest marble and linens, there was only dirt, a few bales of hay, and the filthy rags of animals. Where there should have been a legion of angels, there was just a handful of bleating sheep, a couple of anxious camels, and a few tethered donkeys. And where there should have been a king and a queen and the pomp and circumstance of a royal court, there was only a frightened teenager and her tradesman spouse. Angels did announce the birth of the King but only to a few shepherds guarding their flocks. And that brilliant star was shining in the night; but with the exception of three foreigners, no one even bothered to notice it.

  And so, in that little town of Bethlehem so long ago, a simple peasant girl and her carpenter husband quietly sang lullabies to the King of kings as he drifted off to sleep.

  Also by Donna VanLiere

  The Christmas Secret

  Finding Grace

  The Christmas Promise

  The Angels of Morgan Hill

  The Christmas Shoes

  The Christmas Blessing

  The Christmas Hope

  THE CHRISTMAS JOURNEY. Copyright © 2010 by Donna VanLiere. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Illustrations copyright © 2010 by Michael Storrings ISBN: 978-0-312-61372-3