I wonder what time it is? I can't be bothered getting up and going to look at the stars; I'm too sore. Nothing my mother told me ever prepared me for this! Then again, I suppose she thought she would be with me. I thought she would be with me, along with my sisters, when I had my first child. I never envisaged being all alone. Well, I wasn't all alone, my husband was with me. But for all his years and experience, he was just as bemused and panic-stricken as I was, poor man. Child-birth is women's work. Still, we managed. The baby survived; I survived. But oh, I ache! The baby's sleeping; my husband's sleeping; even the animals are sleeping. The air is redolent with the smell of hay; of cattle, of a sheep or two - there's even a goat in the corner.
What an odd place to be! My husband sleeps on a bed that he made for us by pulling hay-bales apart. My new-born baby sleeps on hay, in a manger. In a manger! And we very nearly didn't even have that! Honestly, I thought I would be giving birth under a bush, tonight. Or - worse - on the side of the road! Why and how did we not think that everybody and his donkey would be in Bethlehem, tonight? Oh, that is not fair: no doubt Yosef thought of it. He was anxious, I know, as we approached the town, but he would not tell me what caused him anxiety. No, I alone did not think that the town would be packed to the rafters. I've been a little pre-occupied, lately. No doubt we would have started a day or two earlier, but I felt so sick! We had to wait until I was well enough to travel. Mother insisted.
... What's that noise? It sounds like a cat. Catching a meal for himself from some of the rats in this stable, probably. Oh! No. It's Yeshua. How funny new-borns sound when they cry? He wants a drink, I expect.
I sit up, as his crying becomes more insistent, then get to my feet. Huh! Fifteen summers old, and I'm moving like my grandmother! I fetch Yeshi, and settle back on the hay with him, leaning against a bale. Now ... how does this go, again? I did manage to give Yeshi a little drink, after he was born. Mother said that was vitally important.
"You'll know when he's taking the milk properly - you'll just know," my mother had said. Uh-huh ... She thought she would be with me for this, too, no doubt. Uh - no, she's right. She is right: the little man is getting stuck into his milk most satisfactorily. My body is aching less, the Lord be praised, and I doze, while the baby drinks. He is tucked right inside my robe, so that I am not exposing too much. Yes, maintaining decency, even in a stable. And he will be warmer there, too: the night is a very cold one.
I change sides: Yeshi has indicated that he hasn't had his fill, and he resumes as eagerly as when I first began feeding him. Again I doze, until a sudden slackening tells me that Yeshi has finished. I bring him out from my robe, rearrange the cloths that cover him (they were all I had, to cover his little body!) and rise to my feet, to put him back in the manger. A thought occurs to me then.
"Always make sure that he's brought up all his wind before you put him down to sleep." Funny how I hear the thought spoken in my mother's voice. I lift Yeshi to my shoulder, and begin patting his back gently. Standing beside the manger, I shift my weight slowly from one foot to the other, swinging my hips slightly. I'm almost dancing. Lifting one heel, then the other. How many times have I nursed nephews and nieces like this? And now, my own little son. Oddly though, my soreness dissipates a little more with the movement.
Yeshi burps suddenly. It is a sharp sound, unusually loud in the silent night, and carries on for a second or two. It makes me laugh, but softly, so as not to wake Yosef.
"Baby boy, such a sound to come from a tiny body!" I murmur to Yeshi. "Well done." I lay him back in the manger, and he's asleep before that little head rests on that hay. For a moment, I simply gaze at him. Ah, but now I'm so tired. And maybe I'll sleep for a while. He'll be wanting his next feed, soon enough!
I turn sharply toward the door, upon hearing an unfamiliar sound. Men are entering, four of them, and I feel very uneasy. I glance at Yosef, but he hasn't stirred. I look back at the men, and recognise that they are shepherds. I've seen plenty, in and around Nazareth. Not surprisingly, I wonder what they want, here. Perhaps they need shelter from the cold? Well, who am I to refuse them, when we needed shelter ourselves, not so long ago? However, I don't want to deal with this myself. I call to my sleeping husband.
"Yosef? Yosef, wake up!"
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