December 2 (part 1)

The Other Mother at the Manger
by Pamela Kennedy

"Miriam! Hurry, the guests need their breakfast! Miriam!"
The irritated and urgent voice of her husband broke through Miriam's daydreams and she swiftly refolded the tiny gown she had been holding, tucking it hastily back into the acacia trunk.
"Coming Benjamin!" she called. Quickly smoothing a few errant strands of hair back under her scarf and lifting her long skits, she dashed down the steps to the large eating room below. She spied her husband with his arms folded, a scowl on his face as he listened to a complaining customer. Ducking into the kitchen, Miriam soon had the serving girls dashing about with trays of fruit and oat cakes, waiting upon the hungry men with efficiency.
"Miriam!" She started at her name and spun around to face Benjamin. He towered over her, his dark hair and eyebrows glinting in the early morning sun that streamed into the small kitchen. He was a handsome man with smooth, olive skin and bright, dark eyes. His attractiveness was marred only by the scowl he habitually wore these days. Miriam suspected it was because of her, and the blame wore heavily on her heart.
"Yes, Benjamin?" Her eyes searched his for the hint of tenderness she used to see there.
"This is the time of the census," he scolded. "You cannot be lolling in bed when the inn is filled with guests who need to be cared for. We cannot expect to keep their business if we do not serve them well."
A caustic retort hovered behind Miriam's lip, but she swallowed it like a hard lump of dough and only nodded.
Apparently satisfied, Benjamin turned and left the kitchen. Angrily, Miriam stoked the fire in the small oven, sending sparks and ashes falling in the morning breeze. "Lolling in bed," she muttered as she banged crockery and emptied dirty plates and goblets. Suddenly, like an uncontrollable wave within her, a great sob welled up and she ran from the kitchen into the tiny garden behind the house. There, she fell on her knees beneath the solitary olive tree and wept.
Behind her, in silence, Benjamin stood and watched. The dark scowl was gone and tenderness filled his deep-set eyes. But he did not go to Miriam. He was afraid; afraid she blamed him and would never forgive him, afraid they could never recapture their love and joy now that the baby was gone. And so he left her alone with her grief and tied his own in an angry knot within himself.
Her despair spent, Miriam leaned against the narrow trunk of the tree and breathed deeply of the morning scents. Small birds skipped among the tree tops and chirped to one another, quarreling over a bit of berry or a leaf.
"How does the world continue as if nothing has happened?" she wondered. The Bethlehem sky was still a bright azure blue, the birds and insects still labored, and the wind still blew, the flowers continued to bloom. Only her child, her tiny son, was no more.
A quarrel from the kitchen interrupted her thoughts and she hurried back inside to see what was the matter. After settling the dispute between two jealous serving girls, Miriam saw to the cleaning of the dining room and supervised the dusting and sweeping out of the rooms of the inn. The day passed quickly, one demand following upon the heels of another, and it was soon time to prepare the evening meal.
Caesar's census, although generating much displeasure among the populace, certainly kept the innkeeper busy. The previous months had been lean, and Miriam was please that though the work was hard, they would experience some security as a result of it.
The sun had set and the early evening sky was punctuated with glimmering stars. Miriam overheard Benjamin's voice as she entered the dining room. "No, I am sorry, we are filled we have no more room." She walked to his side and spoke as she shut the heavy wooden door.
"How many have you turned away?" she asked.
"At least a dozen," he answered. "It's a pity we haven't more space. I could fill every room and turn a good profit." He looked into her dark eyes for a moment, then smiled. "And you could buy those silver bracelets you have been eyeing at old Pash's stall in the market!"
Miriam blushed at his teasing words and returned his smile with a timid one of her own.
Apparently awkward with even this small exchange of emotion, Benjamin cleared his throat and surveyed his guests as they dined. "They seem to be enjoying your meal tonight," he declared without even looking at Miriam.
She nodded. "Lamb is always popular," she replied, wishing she could say something to recapture the fragile moment they had just shared. "Have you eaten, Benjamin? Perhaps I could bring you a plate..."
Her suggestion was interrupted by a loud banging on the door. Benjamin turned and pulled it open, revealing a tired and dusty man. Before the fellow could speak, Benjamin told him the inn was full.
Miriam watched as the hopeful expression faded on the weary face.
"Isn't there anywhere you could put us? My wife is with child and her time is near. We have come all the way from Nazareth."
"Joseph. Oh, Joseph."
Miriam recognized the urgency and anguish of the woman's cry and pushed past Benjamin and around the man outside. She reached up and lifted the young woman from the back of the tired little donkey. her own recent pregnancy caused Miriam to feel an immediate bond with the poor girl.
"Benjamin," she insisted with a rare forcefulness. "we must take them in. The girl is in labor!"
Benjamin glowered at his wife. He didn't want a stranger to her talk to him in such a way and he didn't want anything to do with another woman in labor.
"There is no room!" he repeated, folding his arms over his chest with finality.
"Then make room!" Miriam snapped at him.
Benjamin's eyes blazed with fury and his face reddened at her insolence
"There is no room!" he cried once more and slammed the heavy door.
Joseph turned with embarrassment and began to apologize to Miriam, but she waved off his words with a gesture of impatience.
"Don't worry, it will be all right." Her mind raced as she tried to think of a solution. The girl groaned again and Joseph picked her up, holding her in his arms, calming her with soft assurances.
"Come," Miriam commanded as she grabbed the lead on the donkey. She guided the couple around the inn to the stable behind. After tethering the animal, Miriam cleared out a small area behind the sheep's pen. Wielding an old straw broom, she vigorously swept out the dust and stones, disturbing several roosting hens and dozing sheep. Having cleared the stony floor, she grabbed large armfuls of sweet hay and arranged a deep, soft bed. Unfastening her shawl, she spread it across the hay and then turned to Joseph.
"Put her down here," she directed. "It's not fancy, but it is clean and will be quiet. Loosen her robes and make her comfortable. I need to get a few things."
As Joseph placed his wife upon the hay, Miriam caught a glimpse of her face. It was pale and oval, framed by dark auburn hair. Her skin had the dewy freshness of youth, but her eyes shone an ageless serenity.
"What's your name?" Miriam asked softly as she prepared to go.
"Mary," the young woman answered.
"Well Mary," Miriam continued with a smile of assurance, "I think you will be a mother by morning! Now you lie here and count the stars until I return. It will help pass the time."
"Avoiding the dining area and the chance of an encounter with her husband, Miriam dashed up the back stairway and into their room. She threw open the small acacia chest and felt a sharp tightening in her heart. Forcing herself to reach inside, she removed the small garments she had so lovingly and tearfully stored there only weeks ago. Sorting quickly, she decided upon two wrapping clothes of fine wool and a pure white linen gown embroidered in pale yellow. Grabbing a stack of towels and a basin for water, Miriam ran back down the stairway and out to the stable.
Joseph knelt beside Mary, holding her hand and speaking to her softly. Miriam watched them for a moment, envying the love they shared. Then she spoke quietly.
"Joseph, would you fill this with water from the jar beside the kitchen door? I'll tend to Mary." Miriam sat beside the laboring woman and helped her through the ever-stronger contractions. When Joseph returned with the water, she dipped a towel into the basin and cooled Mary's brown and bathed her dusty arms and feet.
Throughout the night the two women worked together, and as they did each spoke of her dreams and longings. Bound together by the common experience of bringing forth life, they were no longer strangers.
When at last the tiny newborn came, he was perfect and strong. Quickly, Miriam wrapped him in a soft, swaddling clothes she had so lovingly prepared for her own son. Then she laid him gently in his mother's arms and felt the emptiness in her own.
Mary gazed into her baby's eyes - the eyes so filled with the promise of eternity. Then she glanced at Miriam and saw the longing there. "Would you like to hold him?" She offered.
Miriam hesitated before holding out her arms to take the child. Instead of feeling the pain of loneliness, she knew a flood of peace as she looked upon the babe. Something deep within her was released and a new hope took its place.
"What will you call him?" She whispered.
"His name is Jesus," Mary replied, "for he is the Father's promise now fulfilled."
Miriam shifted and the light from a single brilliant star illuminated the tiny sleeping face.
"Jesus," she said. "Welcome, little Jesus. Welcome to the world."
A soft cough broke the stillness and Miriam turned quickly, catching sight of Benjamin walking slowly away from the stables. His shoulders were stooped and his steps weary.
Miriam looked once more at the baby Jesus, tenderly kissed his flawless cheek, then gently returned him to his mother.
"I must go," she whispered.
Noiselessly, Miriam caught up with her husband and pulled at his sleeve to stop him. As he looked at her, she saw the shimmer of tears reflected in the light from the star above. There were no words, but non were needed. She slipped her hand into his and as they walked up the narrow stairway together, Miriam knew something more than a baby had been born that night.