“…and she kept all these things, pondering them in her heart.”
There are some things a woman never forgets. The memories of the first time I met Joseph still keep their sweetness after all these years and the last time I kissed him goodbye is still so sad.
I remember the visit of the Lord's messenger as well as I remember the consequences of my “yes”. I learned much about Joseph's great kindness, his faith in the Lord, and his commitment to his promise the day he met with my family to discuss his decision about my pregnancy. To say that “Joseph was troubled” is a bit of an understatement; I was thrilled that he chose to stand by his promise to me. One who would protect my life as an act of faith was surely worthy of my love lifelong.
Memories of joy and grief are mingled throughout my life as they are for everyone. One memory will sound at least a little familiar to any woman who has ever given birth and to any man who has every been with a very pregnant woman far from home.
When the order came for all those descended from David to travel to Bethlehem, Joseph and I were terribly worried. The journey is long, hard, expensive and, for me, dangerous. At the time we were ordered to go, I would be nine months pregnant with the child God's messenger had told me would be God's chosen, Jesus. As you know, we women rarely left home when pregnant except to visit relatives in our village or attend to necessary household work. Childbirth is dangerous at best, and the result is never certain.
We had no choice. We put our faith in the Lord, packed our donkey with as many helpful things as we could, leaving room for me to ride if I could not walk. Even now, I remember discussing what to take and what to leave behind. I was terrified for my child, but hopeful that the Lord who created this child would protect his mother as well.
You know my back was already achy and my ankles swollen at the end of the day. I was young and strong, but now I tired easily and was often absent minded as if my brain were elsewhere. Joseph was more than willing to help; however, men know so little about what is needed at times like these, I was more dependent on the few women of the other families who traveled with us.
It took us four long days to walk to Bethlehem. In December, the days are shorter as you know, and the nights are very cold in the dry land of Galilee and Judea. No one could walk except in the middle of the day, or alone at any time, as the roads were dangerous. Two nights we managed to find space near an inn to feed our donkey and shelter ourselves. There were so many people traveling to be counted that, as we got closer to Bethlehem, all the inns were full or far more money than we could spend. We were such a little group.
People were often very kind and let us stay in the animal shelters built on the outside wall of the house. The shelters were set up out of the wind and the clean hay was softer than the ground. Some of the shelters were open to part of the inside of the house. In the winter we often kept our animals close for their body warmth.
I had been walking part of the first days, but after that, it was just a blur. Joseph and the men helped me onto our poor little donkey who patiently carried me in the most uncomfortable seat I have ever known. By this time, my back ached unmercifully, I felt too tired to eat, and my legs were so swollen I was glad they were hidden by my burka robes. I began to fear that Bethlehem was too far for my baby and me. I prayed all day for strength and patience and tried to be grateful for the gift of God's beloved son. I will admit his mother was having a hard time being grateful for this journey.
On the fourth day, I had to tell Joseph I simply could not go on. I was very afraid as the baby had not moved inside me for almost two days. Joseph left me with the women of our village group and went to look for some shelter.
He returned late that afternoon, triumphant. “Mary, he said, “We are blessed indeed. I have found the home of a cousin of my father who will help us. He has a stable that is almost completely enclosed. Their cow has weaned her calf and so the manger place kept for the calf is empty and clean.”
I realized then that, even though I thought I was in the habit of being grateful for whatever the Lord sent to me, I had never felt anything like the relief I felt in that moment.
“It is even better, Mary,” Joseph went on, “Aaron's wife will contact their community midwife and she will come as soon as we can get there! I am so happy someone will be there for you—and me!”
And so the story goes on. You all know that Jesus was actually born, and I really did survive—although there were moments when I was not sure I would. Holding that child made my difficult journey fade quickly. Far more urgent was the experience of caring for my first-born. But you know about that.
Now, so many years later, I realize that the journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem was only the first of many travels—out in the world and into my own soul—that the Lord would send me on. It is good to remember that I, a very ordinary woman, brought the Savior of all humanity to meet His people.
©Cecilie Bodnar 2013. Permission granted foruse by Canandaigua Writers' Group
December 12, 2015
