A mother, young and perhaps frightened, great with child and in a place altogether strange to her.  Within her lies the very essence of God in human form.  Without is the world he has come to save, the world that, even now, is passing him by—a foreshadow of mankind’s ultimate rejection.

She does not speak this night, for the baby presses within her.  Her fingers tighten on her husband’s arm.  The warm air chokes her, and the suffocating crowd presses all around to her front and back, pulling the couple along.  Bethlehem is full, too full to accept that which was prophesied to come.  Too noisy to hear the brush of angel’s wings as they descend upon the quiet fields beyond the city walls.

Her husband takes her hand, his jaw working in suppressed frustration.  With his free arm he clears a path and hurries forward.  His eyes flit from the dark street ahead to the young face of his wife, so full of anguish.  He knows that she cannot go on, and his gaze locks on the inn just ahead.  There at the door stands the innkeeper, stroking his beard in amazement at the great crowds.

The husband moves faster, hears the cry that escapes his wife’s lips.  He calls out to the keeper in his native Hebrew tongue.  The man turns, shaking his head and holding up his hands against their pleas.  The inn is full.  Every inn is full.  His eyes fall upon the wife, her belly swollen and her face shining pale in the darkness.  Suddenly he softens, and, raising a weathered hand, points—the stable.  The stable is empty.

The radiance of a thousand angels lights the night sky.  They wait, listening and watching.  And then the feeble cry of a baby is sent heavenward, God and man made one.

Christ is come.

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