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I Can Only Imagine
A soft breeze drifted across the barren countryside--gently urging the weary travelers onward. It was a man--a young man--leading a girl not much older than a child. She was perched upon a donkey. The soft moon shone down on them, encouraging the weary group to keep trudging onward. Bright stars twinkled at them from the dark, cold skies above, sending forth sparkles of brilliant light. His name was Joseph, the girl was Mary. They were headed from Nazareth to Bethlehem.
I can imagine the young girl tiredly massaging her stomach, large with child, and asking, "How much longer, Joseph?" The small of her back aching from carrying a baby all day on the dust-covered donkey bumping along.
Joseph must have shook his head in exhaustion, regretfully telling Mary he did not know. He was only a young man. This may have been his first time to Bethlehem--who knows. He was the leader, the care-taker, the one who was supposed to be supporting Mary. How did he feel, seeing his wife in utter exhaustion, large with child, bumping along the dusty road late at night. Did he feel like a failure? Did he feel he was not giving his wife the proper care and rest she deserved? Did he feel he was not doing his duty as her husband? Her provider?
Suddenly, a flash of light appeared in the distance. Or was it just their imagination? They had been looking for signs of hope--a town--for hours. Were they just "seeing things" because they were so anxious to actually get there? But no, there it was again, far more bold against the night sky this time. Yes--it was definitely the lights of town--the lights of Bethlehem. Joy.
Mary must have let out a long sigh of relief. Suddenly the baby did not feel so heavy, and her back did not ache so much. The donkey wasn't so bumpy, nor the ride so uncomfortable--for she was nearly there--her discomforts forgotten in her eagerness and excitement to finally find rest.
Inside Joseph is thankful. Maybe he is doing a better job at taking care of his wife then his previous discouraging thoughts had told him. For there was a town. That means rest. He quickens his steps. The donkey senses something new, amiss--could it mean rest?
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Inside Joseph must have been screaming in frustration. Inn after inn--but no room. By now, tears are nearly breaking free and sliding down Mary's cheeks. She is tired, oh so very tired. But she must not sleep. She must concentrate on staying awake, and upright on the soft grey donkey.
One more inn. One more try. Was there hope? Could they get a room? Joseph must have paused before he knocked on that door. It could be the knock of doom, or the knock of hope. But then he did it--pounded his fist hard against the wood--echoing into the still night air.
Mary's breath caught in her throat when the inn-keeper opened the rattly door. Her hand came to her heart--waiting. Waiting. Waiting. And then the words flew out into the calm night air.
"I'm full! No room here." And the door slammed shut, sending shivery echoes into the night. The tears came then. Mary did not try to stop them. But Joseph did not give up. Again he pounded on the door. Again it opened.
"Sir, my wife is heavy with child! Any time now, any time she could give birth. Please, is there any place we could stay?" The inn-keeper's hand came to his chin, as he pondered.
Finally he said, "Well, I do have a stable. It's nothing much. But it is warm." Joseph nearly collapsed in relief. This is nothing what he would have imagined. A stable. Animals. And a wife due any time. But it was what he had. And he chose to be thankful. He nodded in agreement.
Along the path they stumbled, after the inn-keeper's slumped shoulders, slouching against the cold winds. His lantern cast query shadows around them, the light bouncing along with the inn-keeper. Soon a large shape rose up in front of them--the stable--their "sleeping quarters."
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"I can't do this, Joseph!" Mary cried into the night, grasping her side in agony. And then, with one final cry, a new sound joined her's, a shrill wail, coming from a newborn child--their newborn child. He wasn't just any child--he was the King. He came from the glories and beauties of Heaven, down to earth, to live among the poor, the weak, and the lowly. His name was Jesus.
Mary looked fondly down on the child--her child. He was perfect. She had traveled for many weary days, she had crawled into a stable, hoping for sleep. Instead her weary body fought with childbirth. But as she looked into his peaceful face--all weariness, and frustration, and hopelessness must have left her. She was filled with joy.
Jesus is the Son of God. He could have been born in the greatest of mansions, with servants hovering over him, and fine royal linens wrapped around Him. Instead--he was born in a stable, and laid in a manger, to parents who were only humble citizens of Nazareth.
Instead of the rich coming to see Him, and bringing Him great gifts--shepherds abiding in the nearby fields came--to worship Him. They were probably stinky and covered in dirt and grass from living in the fields.
But none of this mattered to Jesus--He came to the world for everyone! No matter if they were rich or poor, high or lowly, meek or strong.
But even then, not everyone excepted Him. Herod, in all his riches, despised Jesus, He set out to kill Him. He never succeeded of course. For Jesus is alive today! He is back up in Heaven, preparing a place for His own--and one day--we will join Him.
And so, that Christmas morning, so many years ago, a small child was born. A boy. He's wasn't just any boy. He was the King of all Kings. He came from Heaven to Earth. And then, He died on the cross, and rose again, to save us of our sins. This wasn't just any boy--it was MY Lord! My Jesus! My Best Friend! My All in All!
I can only imagine what it was like--that Christmas morning so many years ago.
Really really good writing, Clari! There are a lot of good thoughts here. =)
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