The Second Day of Christmas
Mary heard the cry through a fog and forced her exhausted eyes open to see sunlight drifting in through a crack in the stable roof. She rolled over. Joseph was still gone. He had left during the last feeding to see if he could do something about their situation. “There’s no way that we can keep going on like this,” he muttered as he looked around their dilapidated quarters.
Mary stared after him as he stooped out of the doorway. Joseph stopped and looked back at her. On the journey to Bethlehem, he had opened up about how he had almost left her. She trusted him, but that small shadow of fear made her worry whether he would come back. He was the only one that Mary knew here. They were miles from home. No mother here nor family. It was just the two of them in a strange town; now three. They weren’t even married yet. He hadn’t signed up for any of this. The prophecy. The baby. The strangers barging in with unbelievable stories about angels.
Joseph looked her in the eye. “I’ll be back. I promise.” And Mary had to trust that he was telling the truth. Ever since the messenger turned her world upside down, she had to trust they were all telling the truth. Her child’s cry competed with the bleating of a lamb. Mary pushed herself up off the straw-strewn floor; still sore. Her body felt like it had been torn open. The pain of childbirth echoed with every move she made.
Mary dragged herself over to a water trough to wash her face, to wake up. She saw her eyes dimly in the muddy water. There were exhausted with rings underneath. She had barely slept. She had just drifted in and out of consciousness. Every couple of hours her baby cried out needing to be fed. Just like he needed to be fed now.
She fumbled around and found a folded up piece of cloth. Mary pulled out a hunk of stale bread. It was a gift from a young shepherd boy the night before. She was grateful for the present; not only for the food but for the reminder that they and their story were not just some fanciful dream. Tossing and turning in the night, she had wondered if their tale of angels singing and the promise of her child were true. She tore a bite off. It was as real as the bread on her tongue. And that gave her hope. The story of the shepherds, her cousin Elizabeth’s proclamation, the messenger’s promise were her sustenance.
The baby cried again. Mary closed her eyes and let out a tired sigh. She didn’t know anything about being a mother. She didn’t know anything about raising a child who was supposed to save the world. She looked back down at the water trough and stared back at her reflection with steely resolve. As overwhelming as this all felt, as alone as she felt, she was not backing down.
She stepped towards the manger and gently lifted up her baby boy. He was so light and heavy at the same time. His eyes closed tight as a scream poured forth from his mouth. This was the Messiah. Tiny. Fragile. Helpless. He was supposed to save his people. But right now she was the only one who could keep him alive. God, she thought, what kind of rescue plan is this?
Her child’s cries began to disturb the animals and a cacophony of noises filled the room and Mary’s heart. She looked at his tiny form. And despite the distress, she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life. Mary loved him. She pulled him to her breast and the baby boy began to drink in life-giving nourishment. As the baby quieted down so did the rest of the stable. All was calm.
