#i wrote this to love like this live by the belonging co

Nativity - A Reflection

“Be not afraid,” the angel had said, and he must have known, then, what was to be, for here lies Mary, and she is afraid.

The baby sleeps beside her, wrapped in her ragged veil, and as she watches him, she can see his eyelids flicker. He’s dreaming. His hair is black, like hers, and his nose bumps at the bridge like hers, and she can see his ears stick out a little, like hers. The light from the lamp is warm and dim, and it shines through the shell of his left ear, making the brown skin glow as if lit up from within. His upper lip puckers to a point, hanging over the bottom, and one hand is stuck to his cheek. Every so often, she can hear his breaths. They come in soft puffs.

And oh, she is afraid.

Joseph sleeps beside them. His arms are tightly crossed and his curly hair is crushed into the straw. He snores. Mary doesn’t mind—it’s not nearly as loud as her father’s snoring, which threatens to topple house walls—and mostly she’s relieved he can rest under a roof. It rained the last two nights. It’s raining now, still, and she can see the drops sliding down the mouth of the cave, drumming into the sodden earth. But this stable is dry and warm enough, and she’s grateful. She looks at Joseph, exhausted, mouth hung open and clothes and legs covered in dried mud, and her heart swells. Somewhere in the cave, the donkey clops a hoof against the stone. Her gaze returns to the baby.

He is so small. She can hold his head in a single hand, and it is this that makes her shake. God Almighty, He who formed the earth, who took dust in his hand and made man and woman from nothing, can fit in the palm of her calloused hand and be content. And when she looks at him, she does not see divinity. She sees her family’s stuck out ears, and the bald spots on his scalp. She smells the rain and the manure, and she hears the animals shifting around them, and she is so afraid, she is so afraid. There is no great veil to separate her from this God. This God is wrapped in her stained and crumpled headscarf so the straw doesn’t prickle him in his sleep. He should be in the temple, surrounded by incense and glory, with priests, worthy priests, to attend him, and all he has is her, and this stable, and her trembling hands.

“How can this be?” she had asked the angel, and she asks it again now.

“Be not afraid,” says a still, small voice.

And she knows him. She looks at him, sleeping, fragile, and does not see divinity, but she knows him. This is the God who stood in the silence of Elijah’s cave and breathed. This is He who walked in the first garden, and who spoke to her heart when she was still a child. This is the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and Jacob. This is the God of her people. It’s enough to stop her heart.

But when he cries, she does not hesitate. She tucks him to her breast and feeds him until he dozes off, and then she lies beside him and watches him sleep. Joseph is still snoring. Out in the field beyond, she can hear the distant voices of shepherds. In the street, a Roman soldier swears as his horse skitters in the mud.

This God is not distant, nor hidden behind splendour. She brushes his soft cheek with her pinky and marvels at the way he turns unconsciously towards it. What but love could compel him to leave his glory? She wonders at it. Here lies the cry of a thousand hearts, cradled in the crook of her arm like any other child. How long, O Lord, has her heart ached for this moment? How many generations of her ancestors have passed, begging on their knees for him to come? And here he is, come, dressed in goose-pimpled skin and fuzzy hair and stuck out ears, and she could laugh at the absurdity if it did not also make her tremble. At last, at last,God is come to creation.

“Be not afraid,” says the still, small voice. And she kisses his head and goes to sleep.