I, as you can probably tell, have a large imagination. And that really comes into play when I read the Bible because, well, it's a story. I can't help but expound in my head what everything was like.
Well, Christmas is tomorrow, and I've been thinking a lot about Jesus' birth. I know many people have imagined what it was like, but I thought I'd take my own shot at it.
People have differing views on whether or not imagination should be used in regards to Bible stories, so I should warn you that (obviously) I took some historical liberties when writing this short piece. If you believe it's heretical, then I will not be in the least bit offended if you quit reading right now.
The Christmas story blows my mind, and I wrote this piece not for followers or likes or affirmation, but for myself. Writing it makes it more real for me. It helps me see events and cement them in my mind as something that actually happened, and not just as words in a book. Maybe it'll help you visualize what that night in Bethlehem was like, too.
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Night is slowly falling, and she feels the pain begin to come.
"Hurry," she tells the man. "Hurry."
They are rushing, now; trying their best to find a place to stay. Her voice is determined between the grunts of pain. "I will not have my child in the middle of a field."
Anywhere, any shelter, will do. She's barely a woman; she's only been mature for a few years. She feels the sharp pain again. "Hurry."
Finally! On the horizon, an inn. Relief floods her senses, a brief solace during the cramps of labor.
Her husband knocks. She sees a man answer the door; watches her husband plead with him as the owner shakes his head. A groan escapes her lips and she grips the animal's mane tighter, just to keep from falling off. Her husband returns with the owner.
"Everywhere is full." His voice is tinged with regret. "The best I can do is the stable."
She's never felt pain like this before. The owner helps her husband lift her off the animal; she lays down in the straw on a blanket, clutching her husband's hand. Neither of them know what to do. There is no midwife to help with this birth. She prays it goes smoothly.
Time speeds up and slows down. Labor is fully upon her, now. Her screams echo through the stable, causing the donkeys and horses to become anxious. She pants. Sweat rolls down her forehead in spite of the cool night.
One final push, screaming, and--at last--!
Here he is!
Small cries join her own tears as her son is lifted into her arms. Her husband takes a cloth and dips it in the watering trough, wiping the birthing fluids off of the baby. Another piece of fabric is found; she wraps it around him tightly, a little Jesus-burrito.
She shushes the baby, calming him as best as she knows how. Her husband sits back and wipes the sweat off his own forehead, thanking Yahweh for a safe birth.
She remembers the heavenly visits that came before the baby, and she marvels.
The fingers that shaped the universe are now a half inch long. Hands that lovingly formed her own body years ago are now clenched into tiny fists, grasping her outstretched finger. He who has never lacked anything will now depend on her for everything. He who was outside time has entered it, helpless and covered in chill bumps from the night air.
He will grow; he will scrape his knees and climb trees and make friends and laugh and cry and live. She cannot see the future, but the weight of responsibility for this Child descends on her shoulders.
Her son smacks his lips, calm and quiet. She smiles.
She wonders how her life will be changed, and how the world will be changed.
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