In the Manger ~ Part 2: Joseph

I hope you’re enjoying this special Christmas story series! If you haven’t read Part 1 you can read it here!

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“It’s time. He’s coming.”

“What? Now?” Joseph rushed to Mary’s side, wrapping an arm around her small shoulders. His heart tripped over itself, then sped into a gallop, hammering in his ears.

She hissed a laugh through clenched teeth. “Believe me, if I could stop this I would.”

Of all the time to have a baby, it had to be here, now? “You’ll be lucky to find any lodgings this night.” The innkeeper’s grim proclamation rang in Joseph’s memory. The man was exaggerating, right? There had to be someone who would take them in. Surely not everyone could be so heartless as to turn away a woman in labor.

Mary doubled over with another pain, clenching her fists until her knuckles turned white. When it passed, she straightened, sweat glistening across her frightened face despite the evening breeze. Joseph cradled her cheeks in his hands, fear, worry, and so much else colliding in a riot. But he had to mask it, had to be strong for her. “Look at me. I will find somewhere safe for you to have the baby. I promise you, motek.” She was his sweetheart, indeed, the very best thing Yahweh had ever given him. He could not fail her.

Joseph pressed a swift kiss to her clammy forehead and swept her into his arms. The dampness of her tunic seeped through the fabric of his own, but he cared little. He hurried down the street, trying not to jar Mary and, Heaven forbid, cause her any more pain. “Watch out!” He pushed his way through their fellow travelers also searching for shelter from the night. “My wife is having our child!”

It wasn’t entirely true. Jesus was not, and never would be, Joseph’s son—not by blood. But from the moment the angel came and told him to take Mary as his wife, love for the child growing in her womb had taken a firm hold on his heart. He would love this child as his own until his dying breath.

Joseph stumbled up to the door of another inn. His hands full with Mary in his arms, he kicked against the splintered wood, drawing curious glances from passersby. Moments later, it opened, revealing the innkeeper. “I’m sorry, we have no more room.”

“Sir, my wife. She is about to give birth. Please, have mercy.”

“Forgive me, young man. I wish I could help you, but even my storage room is full of people.” The innkeeper eyed Mary with pity as she groaned in the throes of another pain. “Yahweh be with you.”

And with that, another door slammed shut in their faces.

Joseph growled under his breath. If only they knew who they were turning away! The Son of God Himself was about to be born!

On and on he half ran, half walked through the city, knocking on the door of every possible place of lodging. And over and over, he received the same careless response.

No room.

Sweat poured down his face and back, his breath short and arms burning from bearing Mary’s weight. She buried her face in his neck, mindless of the salty sweat slicking his skin. “Oh, Yahweh, have mercy.” She groaned, a guttural sound that spiked fresh fear in his heart.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. The Messiah should be born in comfort and safety, with the very best midwives attending Mary. Not like this—in fear and chaos, with no one there to help her but him.

“Joseph!” Mary squeezed the life out of his shoulder. “I—I need to lie down. He’s—”

“I know, motek. I know. Hold on.” Joseph spotted another inn. This was the last street left in Bethlehem. If this inn could not take them in, he didn’t know what they would do. Please, Yahweh! Provide a place for us. He pounded on the door with renewed fervor, his desperate prayer repeating over and over in his head.

The door opened. “I just filled my last room.” With nary a glance at them, the innkeeper started to close the door.

Joseph shoved a foot in the opening before the door could shut. “Sir. I beg you! Can you not see my wife is in labor? We have searched every street looking for someone to help us and no one has been willing. Please, have mercy.” Joseph’s chest heaved against Mary’s swollen middle. She smothered a cry in his shoulder, her tears wetting his tunic. “Please.”

The innkeeper staggered back a step, his jaw slack. After a moment, he cleared his throat, glancing over his shoulder. “You know… I do have a stable you can stay in. Will that do?”

Disappointment struggled with Joseph’s relief. A mere stable? But at least it was better than giving birth in the middle of the street. “Yes, it will do fine. Yahweh bestow blessings on you.”

The man offered Joseph a faint smile and stepped out into the night, easing past him. “Follow me.”

Joseph followed the man around the back of the small inn. Attached to the rear of the building was a quaint stable, enclosed on the sides and open to the air on the front. The innkeeper opened the gate and moved aside for them to enter ahead of him. “Here, allow me.” The innkeeper shooed away a pair of chickens before kneeling on the straw covered floor. He mounded together a large, soft pile of hay in the back corner.

Joseph shuffled through the shadowed structure and lowered Mary to the pile of straw with careful movements. He knelt at her side, smoothing the dark hair from her face. “Try to rest, motek.”

The innkeeper stepped back, giving them space. “Sadly, my wife passed away last year, and the woman who cooks for the inn has already gone home for the night. But I will do my best to offer what help I can. Is there anything you need?”

What did they need? Men never had anything to do with the birthing process; it was strictly women’s territory. He knew next to nothing about any of this. “Umm…” He turned to Mary.

“Hot water, clean cloths.” She groaned, panting through another pain. “And a knife.”

Joseph felt the color drain from his face. The innkeeper, also pale, his hands fidgeting at his sides, nodded his head. “Very well. I shall return as soon as I can.”

Joseph turned back to Mary as the man exited the stable, gathering her hand in both of his. He pressed his lips to her fingers. “Forgive me, Mary. I know this is not how either of us thought this would unfold. I feel I have failed you.”

Her other hand—small, dust covered, and streaked with sweat—touched his cheek. “No, Joseph. Do not blame yourself. We both knew the risk when we embarked on this journey. We knew my time was coming soon.” She tensed and eased a long breath through her nose. Her pains were frequent now, scarcely giving her a moment’s rest before they returned. “I know you did your best to find us a room. What matters is that we are together, we are safe, and we have shelter. It is enough for me.”

Joseph nodded against his hands still clasped around hers. He had no idea what to do, how to help her. The uncomfortable feeling of helplessness weighed on him like the anchor of a Roman warship. Fear and panic threatened to close off his throat, rendering him breathless. No. You must be strong for her, Joseph! You must be strong.

He raised his head, sucking back the veil of tears blurring his vision. “Please. Tell me what to do.”

The next three hours passed in a blur of fear, blood, and Mary’s agonized screams. Every cry tore at Joseph’s nerves a little more, leaving his limbs as shaky as Mary’s grew the longer her labor dragged on. “He’s almost here.” The babe’s dark, curly-haired head was fully visible now, his tiny shoulders beginning to show.

Mary screamed again, the sound mixed with a tearful whimper as she bore down hard, clenching the hay beneath her in tight fists. The nearby cow and two donkeys, one of which was their own trusty animal who’d followed them through town, barely acknowledged the scene. They’d long ago become immune to Mary’s travail, though the chickens had flapped away in fright at the first scream.

With a final gut wrenching cry and strong push from Mary, the babe’s bloodied, film-coated body slid out into Joseph’s waiting arms. He gasped out a relieved, wonder-filled breath. “He’s here. Jesus is here.”

Mary fell back against the hay, heaving in a mix of laughter and tears. Her dark braid lay over one shoulder, wild with flyaways that clung to her face and neck. She closed her eyes and sighed. “Adonai be praised.”

Jesus let loose a pitiful wail, His fists waving in the air. His tiny, reddened features scrunched up, His lips wide as he cried, revealing petite gums and a trembling tongue. Joseph lifted Him in the air, scarcely able to believe the miracle he held. “What do I do now?”

Mary waved a weary hand. “Cut the cord. Then wash him up so we can swaddle him.”

Joseph retrieved the blade and performed the deed according to Mary’s instruction, severing the line that had tied her to the child. Then he sat back, legs crossed, and carefully cradled the baby again, this time in one arm. Slowly, he reached for a clean cloth, terrified to make any sudden movements lest he drop the babe.

Jesus wailed in earnest as soon as the water touched His skin. Just when he’d begun to feel calm, Joseph’s heart raced again. What was wrong? Was he hurting Him? How should he make Him stop crying?

Fighting panic, Joseph eased the wet cloth over the babe’s plump cheeks, one and then the other. “All is well, little one. Don’t cry.” Jesus opened his eyes, His wails fading. He blinked slowly up at Joseph, His tiny eyes, that murky blue-grey color of a newborn, working to focus. The breath left Joseph’s lungs. More love than he could even fathom filled and overflowed his heart. He cast about for more words to speak, but found none.

How wondrous this moment was. He held the earthly image of the One True God in his arm. A baby born of His Spirit, and not of man’s doing. A miracle of all miracles. Their Messiah had come at last, and it was his job to care for and raise Him.

A wave of insecurity crashed over Joseph. How can I do this? How can I raise the Son of God? I have so little to give. No wealth, no home befitting a King. A dirty stable was the best birth place I could provide…

Jesus waved his tiny fist in the air and it knocked against Joseph’s chest.

The thought warmed that cold and burdened place in his soul and slowed his raging heart. The weight of his insecurity began to lift.

You are the one I chose. I am with you, something seemed to whisper in his ear.

Yahweh sent that angel to him, chose him, for this task for a reason—even if Joseph did not know or understand that reason. He would be with him, would help him.

Fresh tears pooled in his eyes. Great is the Lord and greatly to be praised. I am Your willing servant, and I will trust You.

Joseph gathered Jesus up in another clean cloth and slowly stood to go to Mary’s side. She eagerly reached for the child, taking Him into her arms and cradling Him against her chest. Tears of joy coursed down her cheeks, washing away the agonized sweat and tears of her labor. “Jesus…” She ran a finger down His nose, her gaze transfixed on her child’s face. “He’s so beautiful.”

Joseph cradled the back of her head and kissed her salty forehead. “You did it, Mary. You were so brave.”

She breathed a laugh. “Not as brave as you.” She touched each of Jesus’ tiny fingers, counting each perfectly formed digit under her breath.

Joseph smiled and sat back in the hay, taking in the sight of this woman he loved and the child not wholly theirs in body but theirs in heart. Overwhelming humility and gratitude filled his soul. He was, without a doubt, blessed above all men.

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The story continues with Part 3: The Shepherd COMING SOON!