Shooing a pair of goats and a hen out of the first stall, I bend and gather a pile of hay for her. She sinks into it like a sack of grain. She shivers, her forehead moist with sweat. I cover her with my cloak and give her a drink of water from a trough the innkeeper pointed out as we entered. She arches her back in pain and cries out, louder than she has yet. I am thankful for this simple shelter.

“It is time?”

She nods to me and though I’ve never done so I prepare to receive the Child. 

“Just bear down as Elizabeth told you to.” I repeat what I’ve heard, an attempt to be of some help.

And then I bend close. And I see––my Son, the cap of His skull, like black hair on eggshell. I cannot speak. With this first glimpse of Him my anxiety is swept away like sawdust. I reach out and feel the wet warmth of His neck and back as He slides into my hand and up my wrist. His cries echo through the timbers overhead.

I go to see my mom on Christmas Day. I take her flowers. It is like many other visits with the Alzheimers, that thickening veil that separates her from all else.
She is anxious. Who was my dad? She says again that I’m her son – she says it in that way that leaves me wondering if this is a sudden realization or common thinking out loud. She says she doesn’t see any problem so should be able to leave this place. She might even go teach again.
I’ve brought with me Eugene Peterson’s lovely translation of the Bible with the thought that I might read it to her – read her the Christmas story. We walk down the hall – she leans part on me and part on the wall from her bad hip and knee – and find a quiet lounge. I open the blinds to reveal blue sky.
Reading light.
I turn to Luke chapters 1 and 2 and ask her if she wants to read. She nods. I hand her her reading glasses. And within moments there it is. In spite of the fog that has overtaken her, she bends forward, her finger under each word, and reads. The vocabulary is not always right, punctuation fails her at times, yet she is calm. She is focused.
And she reads of Christmas.
She reads and finds – if only briefly, fleetingly. She reads and finds those rare and precious elements.
Peace and hope.

Purple with sunrise, the last of the night’s clouds drift toward the sea. I pass through our gate and start up the rocky, winding path toward home. A dozen cows graze on the hillside to the north. Tales lift and swing as they nuzzle and pull tufts of summer grass. Father and mother left early for the market and took my sisters with them. With a morning alone I have ground some winter wheat and gone to draw water to bake some bread.
The path flattens out as I reach the house. The clear, cold water rolls and pitches in the bucket at my side. I pause to rest, and pass the bucket from one hand to the other. But as I do I am startled. There is a man sitting on the bench in the shade at the side of the house.
For a moment I feel fear climb my back and gather my scalp. As I look at him I realize that this is not a man of the village or the countryside. This is not a man of anywhere nearby or even across the sea. This is someone else. Something else. Perhaps not a man at all, but like a man. He has lovely skin, without blemish. His face is like sculpture, strong and bold, with deep brown eyes. His head is covered in a thick mane of hair the color of weathered ivory. It is pulled back and woven into a braid of more strands than I can count.
As I stare the visitor looks at me, stands, and takes a step toward me. Then, all in one motion, as if without effort he is standing next to me.
He takes the bucket from me and sets it in the grass. He then speaks to me. “Hello beautiful one. The Lord is with you.”
He wears a common shepherd’s cloak but speaks in such a way that causes me to listen with my whole self. I let the words settle over and warm me like the morning light. This simple greeting – it is not like any greeting I’ve ever heard. The words…the tone lifts me from within and seals my gaze.
“Have no fear, Mary. God has graced you.” The visitor takes my hand and leads me into the shade. We sit together on the bench. “You are going to conceive and bear a son. Be careful to call his name Jesus. He is going to be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. He will be granted by God the throne of David and will rule the house of Jacob forever.”
How is it that I will be a mother? Does this one not know the simple girl that sits here with him? Do I look like the mother of a king? He speaks of Yahweh’s promises with such ease. Is this visitor a wandering prophet?
I take back my hand and sift through the questions that spin up onto my tongue. “But I have not been with a man.” I say.
“The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the Highest will shadow you.” The visitor motions toward the sky. “This Child will be called the Son of God.”
I watch the visitor stand, this one who has come. Unexpected. To see and to speak with me.
“Know this too, Mary. Your cousin is now well on with child. Even in her late age the barren one now knows that nothing is impossible with God.”
I have not seen Elizabeth in nearly a year. I determine that I must spend the next feast with her.
The visitor looks at me and says nothing. He simply smiles – not in happiness or out of friendliness, instead a delight breaks across, a joy covers his face.
And as this one looks at me I believe. Even as he turns to leave, the message ripens into a revelation. I think of telling mother and father of the visitor – perhaps one of my sisters. Then I think of telling Joseph. But will I tell of it or wait, save it for a time, hold it close?
As he walks away, into the shadows of the date grove, toward the fields of rye, his words hang in the warming air.
Conceive.
Bear.
Name.
“May it be,” I whisper. “I am Your servant.”
Alone again, I bend to grasp the handle of the bucket and I feel a joy.
A hope for what will become of me.

M: It is good we have finally met, Isaiah. I’ve heard much about you. The faithful say we are speaking about the same event – the event to come – the one of which we’ve been told.
I: Yes! Tell me what have you been saying?
M: I’ve been trying to get the attention of the rabbis in Bethlehem. I told them, Bethlehem, David’s country, the runt of the litter— from you will come the Leader who will shepherd-rule Israel. But they aren’t listening.
I: Oh Micah, who believes what we’ve heard and seen? Who would have thought God’s saving power would look like this? The servant grew up before God—a scrawny seedling, a scrubby plant in a parched field. I speak in past tense about the future. I have seen it! It is a sure thing!
M: The One who is going to be born in Bethlehem, He’ll be no upstart, no pretender. His family tree is ancient and distinguished.
I: This is true, but you speak of His glory while I speak of His humility. There was nothing attractive about Him, nothing to cause us to take a second look. He was looked down on and passed over, a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand. One look at Him and people turned away. We looked down on Him, thought He was scum.
M: Meanwhile, Israel will be in foster homes until the birth pangs are over and the Child is born, and the scattered brothers come back home to the family of Israel.
I: But the fact is, it was our pains He carried— our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us. We thought He brought it on Himself, that God was punishing Him for His own failures. But it was our sins that did that to Him, that ripped and tore and crushed Him—our sins! He took the punishment, and that made us whole. Through His bruises we get healed.
M: He will stand tall in His shepherd-rule by GOD’s strength, centered in the majesty of GOD – Revealed. And the people will have a good and safe home, for the whole world will hold Him in respect— Peacemaker of the world!
I: Of course, Micah, but it is personal! We’re all like sheep who’ve wandered off and gotten lost. We’ve all done our own thing, gone our own way. And God has piled all our sins, everything we’ve done wrong, on Him, on Him.
M: Isaiah, I have not only said all this, I’ve written it down.
I: I have too. Though I’m not sure why. No one seems to listen, why should we think they will read?
M: Maybe they’ll read what we’ve written – even after it is done, generations from now – and see that we foretold it all?
I: Many won’t, but some will, Micah, some will.

*Much of this text taken from the books of Isaiah and Micah as found in The Message, by Eugene Peterson.

How about a bit of classic literature?
Luke records for us what Mary said when she was told she would bear the Christ Child.
One of the earliest recognized and most enduring of Christmas liturgies, the Magnificat or the Canticle of Mary.

“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for He has looked on the humble estate of His servant.
For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for He who is mighty has done great things for me,
and holy is His name.
And His mercy is for those who fear Him
from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with His arm;
He has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts;
He has brought down the mighty from their thrones
and exalted those of humble estate;
He has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich He has sent away empty.
He has helped His servant Israel,
in remembrance of His mercy,
as He spoke to our fathers,
to Abraham and to his offspring forever.”

The birth of Jesus took place like this. His mother, Mary, was engaged to be married to Joseph. Before they came to the marriage bed, Joseph discovered she was pregnant. (It was the Holy Spirit, but he didn’t know that.) Joseph, chagrined but noble, determined to take care of things quietly so Mary would not be disgraced.
While he was trying to figure a way out, he had a dream. God’s angel spoke in the dream: “Joseph, son of David, don’t hesitate to get married. Mary’s pregnancy is Spirit-conceived. God’s Holy Spirit has made her pregnant. She will bring a son to birth, and when she does, you, Joseph, will name him Jesus – ‘God saves’ – because he will save his people from their sins.” This would bring the prophets embryonic sermon to full term: Watch for this – a virgin will get pregnant and bear a son; they will name him Immanuel (Hebrew for “God is with us”).
Then Joseph woke up. He did exactly what God’s angel commanded in the dream: He married Mary. But he did not consummate the marriage until she had the baby. He named the baby Jesus.
After Jesus was born in Bethlehem village, Judah territory – this was during Herod’s kingship – a hand of scholars arrived in Jerusalem from the east. They asked around, “Where can we find and pay homage to the newborn King of the Jews? We observed a star in the eastern sky that signaled his birth. We’re on pilgrimage to worship him.”
When word of their inquiry got to Herod, he was terrified – and not Herod alone, but most of Jerusalem as well. Herod lost no time. He gathered all the high priests and religion scholars in the city together and asked, “Where is the Messiah supposed to be born?”
They told him, “Bethlehem, Judah territory. The prophet Micah wrote it plainly: It’s you, Bethlehem, in Judah’s land, no longer bringing up the rear. From you will come the leader who will shepherd-rule my people, my Israel.
Herod then arranged a secret meeting with the scholars from the East. Pretending to be as devout as they were, he got them to tell him exactly when the birth-announcement star appeared. Then he told them the prophecy about Bethlehem, and said, “Go find this child. Leave no stone unturned. As soon as you find him, send word and I’ll join you at once in your worship.”
Instructed by the king, they set off. Then the star appeared again, the same star they had seen in the eastern skies. It led them on until it hovered over the place of the child. They could hardly contain themselves: They were in the right place! They had arrived at the right time!
They entered the house and saw the child in the arms of Mary, his mother. Overcome, they kneeled and worshiped him. Then they opened their luggage and presented gifts: gold, frankincense, myrrh.
In a dream, they were warned not to report back to Herod. So they worked out another route, left the territory without being seen, and returned to their own country.