The Man with the Crown

 

The Man with the Crown

    

     “He says he’s their king,” a soldier said. Claude went on with his work, fingers moving over the woven leather vest until the hole closed up. He nodded in satisfaction. It was finished. The armor was repaired now.

     Laughter burst from outside the courtyard. Claude tried to ignore it. As long as it wasn’t at him, he didn’t mind. Today they had found someone else to torment. Yesterday had been different when one of the big soldiers had taunted Claude about being too weak to lift a spear. Claude had wished he had the strength to stand up to the man. Instead, he had tried to make himself small enough not to be seen. Then the big soldier had stumbled forward as their captain slapped the back of his head. The captain had then reminded the company that Claude was touched from the gods with his talent for repairing the things that they all broke. Those soldiers had the best armor in Jerusalem thanks to Claude so they should show respect, lest their leather weave become weak with holes.

     Claude focused on inspecting his work and heard another eruption of laughter. There was a prisoner on trial who claimed to be the King of the Jews. Another revolutionary, Claude supposed. Just another man trying to lead others against Rome. Just another man who would die on a cross and be forgotten.

     “You,” a voice said. Claude looked up to see his captain grinning at him. “I have a task for you, boy,” he said. “Come.”

     The captain led Claude behind the barracks where the scrub brush grew thick on the slope. He pointed to the dry plants that formed the barb-like thorns that could pierce leather armor.

     “Take some of those thorns there,” the captain directed. “Use your skills to weave them into a crown.”

     “A crown?”

     “Yes, a crown like what a king would wear on his head. Make a crown from these thorns. Do it right away. I want it as soon as our king arrives.”

     Claude put on his gloves and was careful taking cuttings from the thorny plants. He heard more shouts as he carried the items back to his work bench, this time from the crowds. They seemed to be furious about something. Perhaps they didn’t like this man who called himself king. Well, they would be pleased when they saw him suffer and die. Claude didn’t care for executions. He hoped he would be allowed to return to his normal work once his task was completed.

     Claude wouldn’t rush this work. He went slow, bending the sticks and twigs around each other. The thorns pointed in all directions, including inward. This King of the Jews would feel the thorns going into him, but Claude dismissed that thought. The man was a criminal. He deserved what Rome handed down. What’s more, he would welcome death as a release from the suffering.

     A thorn penetrated his glove and Claude winced in pain. He pulled off the glove and sucked at his finger for a moment. There was a drop of blood on the thorn and he cursed at it. Then he sighed and put the glove back on. The thorn was only a dry bit of wood. It had no malice and didn’t know what it was doing. It was one of many thorns being shaped into a crown. He worked at it until it was done.

     Claude smiled at his finished product. His captain was right to charge him to this. This crown was large and sturdy. His efforts had made something good. He stared at the thorns. Once he wiped the blood from the single one that got him, he couldn’t tell one from any other. They were all alike.

     Finally the doors burst open and a group of soldiers marched into the courtyard. They were pulling along a man who held his head up. The man seemed to want to come along. He wasn’t resisting, but they hurried him anyway.

     Claude stared at the face of the man. He didn’t look like a king or even a criminal. He looked like any other Jew in the land. But his face, the more Claude looked at the man’s face, the more the man perhaps did look like a king. What was this? Then Claude realized it. This criminal looked like he knew each of these men’s names. When the criminal’s eyes fell on him, Claude shuddered. This man looked at him as if he knew his name and everything about him. Claude dropped his gaze to his work table. The crown was gone.

     The captain had hooked the crown with the end of his whip and was carrying it to the man. He lifted the end of his whip and dropped the crown on the man’s head where it sat lightly.

     “Hail, King of the Jews,” the captain said, the last words coming out in a laugh.

     Then Claude watched as his captain put his whip on both hands and pressed the crown of thorns down hard on the man’s head. Through the guards cheering, Claude heard the man cry out in pain. But when the captain pushed the criminal to the ground, Claude was astounded. The man looked up at the captain into the captain’s eyes with a look of pity. The cheers died down, replaced by angry shouts.

     Claude was ordered from his workbench to stand in formation. The man was beaten. Claude tried to watch as little as possible. But all the while, he could never shake the feeling that this condemned man was the one in charge. The captain called orders and the strong men worked the whip. But this man who could barely stand after a while never lost the look that he knew everyone’s name and if he wanted to, he could just walk away.

     At last they had enough of the beating. The captain called for assembly to march. Claude looked at the man, torn and hurt, struggling to his feet. The crown was still secure on his head. He had indeed made it well for it to remain on the man’s head. Now the man was beaten and suffering for his crime. It was a harsh punishment indeed. Did this man deserve such torture?

     The captain stepped in front of Claude, blocking his view. “Your work was superior, he said. “The crown is well made. You have earned the right to carry this.” The captain handed Claude a sign written in three languages. All Claude knew was his own, which read King of the Jews.  

     Claude was put out in front and told to hold the sign high. This was the man’s crime. Everyone would see the offence this man had committed and see the condemned man punished severely for it. The population would be taught the consequences of crimes against who ruled.

     They started off through the streets of Jerusalem. It would not take long to reach the hills outside the city, but the condemned man moved very slowly. Claude was astounded at how crowded the streets were. It seemed the whole city and more turned out to see this man. Soldiers were positioned in front of Claude to keep the way clear and he held the sign high for all to see. So many people, and so many who did not seem to hate this man. Women and children were crying for him. Several men too, cried for this criminal.

     The procession halted. The man had fallen. Claude glanced back and saw the crown still on his head. Then his heart pounded in sorrow. The man would die with the crown still on. Claude had only made it thinking about his craftsmanship and how skilled he was. He had never thought about it being the last and only thing a man wears while he bleeds and dies.

     The man spoke to the crowd. Claude could not understand the local dialect. Whatever he said, it seemed to make the women even more sad. Finally another man was pulled from the crowd to help carry the cross through the streets. The walk to the hill outside the city still took a long time.

     Once at the hill the soldiers assembled in formation at the base. Some of the crowd pressed against the line of men. Claude was called to the top of the hill with the sign. He stood and held it, not so high anymore, while the man was laid on the cross and nailed down. Claude handed over the sign and it too was nailed to the cross above the man’s bloody head. Then the cross was lifted. Claude was gestured in and he stepped up to assist his fellow soldiers. The cross rose up and then dropped into place.

     Claude could not stop himself from looking up at the man with the crown. The man was looking upward at the darkening sky. Then in short gasps, he spoke. Claude wondered what the man said. The words were spoken with the same pity the man had carried throughout the beating and procession. What words could this dying man say? Claude felt he had to know.

     Two other condemned criminals hung on crosses and shouted back and forth. At one point, the man with the crown spoke to one of them. When he did that, the criminal, a thief according to his sign, had such a look of peace that Claude wished even harder that he understood the local language.

     Who was this man who could give peace to a dying criminal? Who looked on his tormenters with no hate, but pity?

     Claude glanced around. Most of the soldiers had been dismissed. There was still the small formation at the top of the hill and now several of the locals had made it up with them. Most of them paid no mind to the Roman Soldiers, only a few looked warily at Claude and the rest. Claude recognized one of the men as a merchant from Arimathea who had traded with them. He would know both the language of the locals and of Rome. Claude considered stepping over to speak to him.

     Several of the soldiers shouted up to the man. They told him he may come down now. One of them was wearing the man’s robe. Despite being midday, the sky was growing even darker.

     All at once, the man with the crown cried out. At the foot of the cross an old woman began wailing in earnest. Another man put his hand on her shoulder and spoke to her. She shook her head. The man with the crown spoke once again. His words were pained, but still carried strength.

     Claude slowly stepped over to the group at the foot of the cross. The sky rumbled. He glanced at the merchant who backed away from him. The captain walked up carrying his spear and looked up at the sky and frowned.

     The next time the sky rumbled, the man with the crown cried out. People all around looked up to him and spoke among themselves. Claude looked to his captain who looked concerned. Then the man with the crown shouted and everyone jumped in surprise, even the captain.

     “I have heard cries on the battlefield before,” the captain said softly. “That was not a cry for mercy. That,” he pointed up with his spear. “That was a victory cry.”

     Claude looked from his captain to the man. Before he could speak he was knocked to the ground. People everywhere cried out as the ground underneath shook. Claude heard the city behind him rumble under the earthquake. He got to his hands and knees and looked up, right into the eyes of the merchant from Arimathea.

     The captain offered Claude a hand and pulled him to his feet. The captain’s face was still troubled. Claude reached down and offered the merchant a hand up. Then the three stood together and the captain drew a deep breath.

     “Surely,” he said. “This was the Son of God.”

     Claude turned to the merchant. “Do you know what he spoke?” he asked.

     The merchant looked to Claude and his face softened. “He was calling out to God,” he said.

     A wind was picking up and Claude felt drops of rain, or perhaps hail. “I made that crown,” he murmured. “I made that crown of thorns he wore when he died.” Claude felt his voice break.

     The merchant frowned and said nothing. It seemed the connection between them was done. The man bowed his head. Claude saw his captain raising his spear to the man with the crown. Claude and the merchant both turned their backs. There was a cry of shock from the men and women at the cross.

     Claude began to feel tears in his eyes. He did not feel like a soldier of the Roman Empire then. He felt like someone who had made sure this man died in pain.

     “He said something else,” Claude heard. He looked over to the merchant whose face looked just as pained. They looked to where the cross was being lowered. Rain was falling hard and most of the soldiers were busy. Once the cross was low enough, a young man started to work the crown loose. It took some effort to get it off and the man’s fingers were bleeding when he finally got it off and flung the crown away.

     The merchant looked at Claude as he watched. “He said this,” he told him. “Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they are doing.”

     The man had spoken words of forgiveness? Could it be that the horrible thing Claude had done was forgiven? He would have to think about this.

     As he left the hill, Claude looked in the direction that the crown had been flung. He couldn’t see it anymore.

         

 

The Miracle Rising

The Miracle Rising

     It hurt when the storm came. I had not felt that kind of pain in a year. It had always used to hurt before the rains came. But when this storm struck so unexpectedly that it did not have had time to hurt before. When the sky darkened and the wind and rains came, I felt that old ache again. It frightened me.

Then I heard what people were saying. I refused to believe it. When they said that The Teacher was dead I almost laughed. I told them what The Teacher had done for me. How could he die on a cross? When I saw his followers, they were crying. That huge man, one of the fishermen, he was almost as big as me and weeping like a child. I felt their anguish. I wept too. The Teacher was dead. I was so sad I almost couldn’t walk.

     Time before, I had gone for years without walking. And then The Teacher came to me. When he healed me, he gave me so much more. More than just by body was changed. I don’t want to ever forget that day.   

I am on the ground, leaning against the wall by the gate. This day my leg and back are hurting more than usual. It must be about to rain. The ruined bones of my back always ache more before a rain. Today, I decide I don’t want alms. I’m too furious. I shout curses at passersby. I curse the donkey that had kicked me and made me like this. People mostly ignore me. They give alms to the women or the elderly. A big man like me ought to be working. I would be working had it not been for that donkey.

Nothing is fair. Nothing is right. I should be walking around earning money. I had been a strong man. I used to lift heavy bails. Now I am starving and in pain against a city wall, relying on the whims of others to be able to live. My anger seethes and boils like burning stew in a cookpot.

Then I see him. The Teacher walking with a group of men. My anger grows even more. These men are laughing and talking. The Teacher must have said something funny because they all stop walking to laugh. Even The Teacher is leaning on his knees and wiping his eyes. When I see this group of men with their friendship and happiness I want to hurl my pain and misery at them. This is what I think: Even if it were to double my pain and suffering, I would share it with others so that they would stop being so cheerful. I want them to be miserable just like me.

Now on this dark day made my back hurt again. They said that the teacher was dead. They told me how he had been beaten and whipped and then nailed to a cross. The pain he must have felt. It would have been so much worse that what I ever endured.

I spoke the words aloud: “How could he have died? He healed me. The bones in my back were crooked and broken. I was in pain. He touched me and healed me. How then, how could he allow himself to be so hurt that he would die, bleeding and in pain on a cross?”

No-one knew how to answer me.

The rain began. This was no refreshing spring rain. This was a cold, bitter rain like the kind that comes and blots out the world, washes away the dirt and dust and then leaves everything bare, cold, wet and lonely. I let the rain fall on me. My bones hurt, but not the way they used to. Perhaps I only imagined the pain from years of it happening. Inside me, the sorrow hurt more.

Other people stood in the streets and let the rain fall. Still others ran for cover. I knew many of the ones who stood and let themselves be rained on. Friends of the teacher, those who had heard his words or felt his touch, including me, we stood in the streets and let the rain hit us. It hid our tears and we all seemed to want to wash away the anguish. His close followers were no-where to be found. Those followers had been with him that day.

I start shouting at The Teacher and his friends. The men look abashed. The Teacher, however, I can’t believe what he does. The man looks at me and smiles, almost laughs again. Youngsters will sometimes point and laugh at me. But a grown man usually doesn’t even look at me, even if he gives me alms. Now this man is looking right into my eyes. And he smiles. He smiles as if I’ve been with his group of friends and I ought to be walking and laughing with them. The insults and curses in me are stopped dead. I try to speak, but I can’t. What can I say to this man? I can’t ask alms of him now after all I had shouted at him. But he looks at me as if I had never said anything to him.

It’s like this: He seems to understand, even feel my pain and bitterness. The rage I show is on the outside. Inside I am hurting and miserable. And he sees through that rage. My insults and curses mean nothing to him. And he smiles at me as if he knows me and I’m his friend.

But this friendliness does not make me feel better. There is still so much darkness in me that I do not take well to his cheerful looks. So I began to try to shout again. The words are stuck in me and I can’t think of what to say. I repeat words and groan. I finally burst out an insult at his mother. One of the men with him lurches forward. And the teacher puts out his arm and stops him.

“That’s enough,” The Teacher says. Even though he’s not close to me, the voice feels like it is spoken next to me. Now he looks at me without the laughter. His look has expectation. He begins to walk toward me. The rage and pain in me seems to cower.  

The hours over the next day were full of sorrow. I met a woman who quietly told how The Teacher had changed her life. The way the story went, He had saved her from stoning. Another man talked of the blind seeing. There were even talks that The Teacher had raised a man from the dead. When I heard that, I was torn. I had been crippled. Then I was not. The Teacher could do these things. But then why was he dead?

The morning of the first day of the week I was bleary-eyed. I had not slept well, despite having a whole body, my bones felt like they wanted to ache. But I don’t think it was that. I think it was my heart that was in pain. I remembered the day He took my hand. I had felt such joy. I thanked him, of course. But as I stepped out into the cold morning air, I wished I had thanked him more.

Something woke me. I thought perhaps the earth had moved. I stepped outside. The sun was about to rise and I looked in its direction. The light blazed out and I shut my eyes and felt the air turn warm. What a simple pleasure. I used to curse the sun for spite. After that I used to enjoy the solitude and warmth of the sunrise. Now the loneliness…

“You’re hurt,” he says. Two words. Those two words spoken to me seem to say everything about me. Not just my ruined back and leg, but all the pain and sorrow that was with it. And he speaks it, not like an observation, but like he is, yes, teaching me something. He tells me I’m hurt as if I didn’t know. And the words startle me. Why, yes. I am hurt.

He is close to me. I don’t want to look in his eyes. I look at his friends milling about the gate. They are not disturbed by their friend stopping to talk to someone. A few friends are closely watching us. He’s standing over me now. I steal a quick glance upward. Had he asked me a question? No, what does he want?

Why can’t he just go away and let me shout in anger at everyone? There are days when the anger and shouting out are all I have. The rage sustains me better than bread. This is one of those days. I want to go back to raging. I need to. I’m beginning to feel out of breath without shouting. I want the man to move on. Instead he stands by and waits for me to say something.

I try to prepare myself to shout at him. I take a deep breath in order to yell at him to leave me alone. I choke out a sob. Inside I scrabble for the strength that comes from the anger. It’s gone. The rage has left me. Suddenly I feel so ashamed and exposed.

“No…” is all I can say. And then I begin to sob. It’s the same pain anguish I had always felt. But now it’s without strength. It’s hobbled, just like me.

He reaches down to my hand. As he takes it I try to pull it away. But I also let my fingers clamp down. His hand is rough like a workman’s. I look from his hand to his face. I have tears in my eyes. What has this man done to me?

Then I’m able to make out his face through my tears. It looks sad too. The man asks me what I want him to do.

What do I want? All I know was that I want my strength back. I used to be a strong man. But now the only strength I’ve known for the past years, all that sustained me through the pain was that rage. I want to hate again so I can ignore the pain.

How can he ask me what I want? And how can I tell him? I want him to leave me alone.

I choke out the word, “Go.”

At that he gently lets go of my hand. And when he does, a cold wave flows over me. The pain in my body sinks down beneath this feeling of loneliness that I’ve never felt before.

But that morning I didn’t feel lonely. Remembering that day was uplifting. For the first time in days, I felt as if I was not alone anymore. It was like the warm morning sun was my friend and had just given me an embrace. That warmth that came from the light was like something I remembered so well. Yes, it was like the touch of The Teacher. I smiled at the sun and thought words of thanks for its reminder to me of the touch of the teacher.

I didn’t retreat into my room. I took to the streets. My bones weren’t aching at all. The cool air and the warm light were invigorating. I almost felt like running. There was someone running in fact. I saw it was a woman. I thought she must be in danger. She was saying something as she ran, something to no-one in particular.

The woman turned a corner toward where The Teacher’s friends were staying. I walked quickly toward the street corner. When I turned it, she was already gone. I found myself running too. Suddenly a group of men, the followers spilled out of a door and came at me. Some looked angry, others confused. The woman was there, and her face looked like the rising sun.

Two men in the front of the group were at a full run and blew past me. The woman followed closely. I stopped one of the remaining men and asked him what had happened.

“He’s gone,” the man said. “They’ve taken him.”

I let the man go. He was gone? The Teacher was gone? He was dead. Did someone take the body? Why?

The men who didn’t run off stood in the street and looked bewildered. I must have looked the same. I looked in the direction the others had gone, toward the tomb. They couldn’t be lying. Was the woman mistaken or mad?

I walked away and wandered the streets, thinking. Somehow, I ended up at the city gate where I had sat on the ground just over a year ago. I found the precise spot against the wall where I had sat with my pain, rage and hate.

“Wait,” I cry softly. And I look, he’s still there. Through great pain, I reach up my hand to his. At that moment, all I want was his touch again. He takes my hand, oh when he takes my hand again, that coldness vanishes. Warmth returns. I don’t want him to leave me alone. I want to feel this closeness forever.

“I want to stop hurting,” I say. That hate and rage that I’ve held onto, it seems so small and insignificant now. I tell him, “I don’t want to hate anymore.”

And then he starts to pull on my hand. What is he doing? Pulling me to my feet? The bones of my back will rub together and I will pass out from the pain. But the strength, the warmth that I feel at his touch, I don’t want it to stop. And I hold tight to his hand.

And then there I am, still holding his hand, crying out, but not in pain. I’m crying out in surprise. I am standing. I can’t speak. The man’s friends are smiling. People around are staring. And the man, the man is laughing again. And then I start to laugh. I throw my arms around him and I lift him from the ground! The man’s friends cheer. The teacher lifts his hands and shouts words of praise to His Father. I have my strength back. It is as if it never left me. I set The Teacher down, throw both hands in the air and shout, joining the man’s friends in celebrating.

He had taken my hand here. I was pulled up out of it all. Not only was my body made whole, but I started a new life that day. He had made me new, saved me. The rage and hate retreated. As I listened to his teachings in the following months, the rage and hate went the way of the pain.

I had puzzled for days over why this man could save me and not himself.

Now his body was gone from the tomb.

Could that mean what I hoped it could mean?

And when the woman’s next news came out, I was one of the first to believe.

Dawn of a Thousand Suns

     When the knock came to Shifra’s door, she wanted to shout that she was sleeping and to go away. When she opened the door and saw the dimwitted innkeeper’s daughter smiling at her, Shifra knew that the girl may have believed the ruse. Oh well, the door was open and there was the girl smiling at her. A knock at the door at this time of night could only mean one thing. A child was to be delivered. And if it was the innkeeper’s daughter, then the mother having the child was most likely from out of town. Would they have any form of payment for a midwife? The last foreigner had offered to pay in sand. Yes, sand that they claimed was from their home soil and brought fabulous luck. Shifra had gone hungry for days after that. Hunger. Tonight another small one would come to know that.

“So, another mouth to feed and another back to be broken under Roman tyranny,” Shifra said to the girl. The girl looked puzzled and seemed to consider. Then she smiled and nodded.

“And my old bones aching from the cold,” Shifra said and she turned and got her wrap. “I thought these summer months would be warm and pleasant. I’m sure that the sheep on the hills outside the town will freeze to death in this cold. And the shepherds watching over them… Ah, but I’m sure they don’t. The cold is sent to vex only me, Right girl?”

The girl was running her fingers over Shifra’s rough doorframe. She was about to shout to the girl to stop before she caused the whole little shack to fall to the ground. But the poor girl’s look of bliss was too much to quell.

Shifra had delivered this girl some 15 years back. The girl had come into the world backwards and blue. Usually, when that happened, Shifra gave it up. But this child had been strong and gurgled to life. But those minutes of blueness had taken their toll. The girl grew up not quite understanding most things. She spoke only rarely and always seemed happy. To be happy all the time, Shifra thought. That was a sure sign of something wrong.

Shifra knew that she herself made up for it in bitterness. The anger at the world, the resignation seemed to have grown over the years. Every year, another year of loneliness. Another year of children being born and handed over to parents to live in this sad world that had no hope. The promised messiah was just a story. The real world was without hope. Once Shifra accepted that, everything seemed so much easier. Of course she had suffered a lot years ago. That had robbed her of any joy she might have carried into her later years.

“Very well then girl,” Shifra said, pulling her cloak tight. “Perhaps at least your father will provide a bowl of broth for a poor old woman, yes?”

The girl smiled and nodded. Shifra was confident that Josiah the innkeeper would not want Shifra to leave without something to eat or some other form of compensation. The man was generous beyond belief, taking in lodgers until his rooms were full. Tonight there may even be people sleeping in corridors. The little town of Bethlehem had more people than ever. This mother in labor would have no privacy.

Shifra let the girl lead the way through the nighttime streets brilliant with moonlight. More people than usual were sleeping in the streets these days. It was that Roman censes. The Romans wished more taxes from everyone, regardless of whether or not they wished to live under Rome.

The girl began to wander away from the direction of her father’s inn toward the outside of town. Shifra stopped walking and watched the girl, but she didn’t turn around. She sighed.

“You’re going the wrong way, you silly girl,” she said. “Don’t you know where your home is?”

The girl turned around and smiled. “Yes,” she said softly.

Well, the girl had spoken. Yes, of course she knew where her home was. So why was she leading Shifra across a pasture to a stable?

“No. No,” Shifra called ahead of her and hurried to catch up. “You don’t fetch a midwife to deliver a cow. Animals can be born all by themselves.”

But the girl kept walking. Overhead, the moon was blazing like a brilliant white bonfire. Shifra paused and looked up. Then she stopped mid-step and almost fell forward. It wasn’t the moon. It was a star. It was a star such as she had never seen before. It looked to have more colors that the usual white. There were needle-like rays extending out that seemed to shine in almost rainbow colors.

She stood and stared until she felt her arm gently touched. Shifra started at the girl standing by her. The girl too, was looking at the star. The baffling thing was that when she did, her dimwitted smile was replaced by a smile of knowing. The girl’s mouth had closed and her eyes narrowed as her head titled up to look. Then she looked back to Shifra with the same look of understanding. They both looked at each other for a moment and then Shifra shook off the wonder.

“Let’s see this mother in need,” she said. And they both started off for the stable.

There were the sounds of animals stirring, disturbed from their sleep. Shifra could smell them too. How nice, she thought. A child born amongst animals, surrounded by their noise and smell. What kind of life would this baby grow into?

Walking into the stable, Shifra saw a man hunched down over a young woman. The woman was holding a small bundle. So the Hebrew women continued to be lively, it seemed. The child had arrived quickly. Shifra considered just turning and walking away. She could go home, back to her mat and blanket where she would lie all night and curse the darkness. No, best check the child over. Make sure the mother was alright. Maybe she would still, even now, receive some compensation.

The mother was young, Shifra observed. The husband, a little older looked up with a smile.

“You’ve come to see,” he said.

Shifra raised her eyebrows. “I’m the midwife,” she said. “I see that the child is come already. Do you want me to look him over and see to his health?”

Then the mother looked up into Shifra’s eyes. Shifra was stunned at this girl’s expression of peace and knowing. Why should a young mother who had just experienced childbirth look this way? She looked as if she had married a wealthy merchant and would never know hunger. But no. Shifra looked more at the young mother. That wasn’t the giddy look of a bride on her wedding day. No, it was the look of someone who knew that they were safe from something, like fear or hunger. But this young mother had a new mouth to feed. The same mouth would howl all night and deprive her of sleep and eventually her beauty too. The child would go on to break her heart. Perhaps he would be walking at night and never return and this mother would never know if her child was alive or dead.

Shifra shuddered at the feelings in her. This was not time to reflect on how she felt. This new mother was exhausted. The look of calm relief was that the pain and pushing were done. She walked closer to the mother and child and tried to ignore the look of hope the mother had.

“Let’s have a look,” she said. “A little boy?”

The mother nodded and turned the bundle in her arm. She had done well wrapping the baby up. She saw his face, red and wrinkled. His eyes were closed and his mouth moved in smacking motions.

Shifra felt her heart soften. “We’ll leave him wrapped up for a while,” she said. “He’ll be awake soon enough. You both can rest.”

She became aware of someone next to her. It was the innkeeper’s daughter. She had gotten on her knees, as if in prayer and was looking at the child. Her face wasn’t the empty smile now. There was almost a look of apprehension.

“The baby is fine, girl,” Shifra said. “Everything is fine. Oh my…”

Shifra shuddered as the girl held her hands out to the baby and the mother, not much older, handed the child over with a smile.

“Careful,” Shifra said. “Hold his head, yes, that’s the way. There you go.”

And then the silly young girl was holding the baby and had the same look on her face. This was a look of someone who had heard good news. Shifra looked at the father and saw the same thing. Everyone looked to this child as if he were some king who would bring peace and prosperity to the land. But it was just a helpless child. A child who would someday feel the crush of the world just like everyone else.

“Well,” Shifra said. “The child seems well, perhaps I will just be on my way then.” She stood and waited for someone to at least look in her direction. But everyone was looking at the newborn boy. She looked at him again. He was no different, she thought. But why then, did something feel different? Did that star in the sky put some kind of spell on this night?

She would get no compensation. The innkeeper’s daughter handed the child back and went to the feeding trough. She would find her own way home. Shifra turned and headed to the stable door, but gasped in surprise. The door was blocked by a group of dirty men. Bandits, surely. They had come to steal the animals and would carry off the young women too.

Shifra opened her mouth to shriek, but then recognized the man in the front, and her heart went from fearful to hard anger.

“Hello Berel,” she said.

“Hello,” whispered the biggest of the men in a soft voice. He hadn’t even noticed who spoke to him. He too was ignoring Shifra and looking at the baby boy.

“What are you doing here?” Shifra hissed at the man. “Get your dirty band of shepherds out of this place. There is a newborn child. You don’t belong…”

She stopped as the group of men stepped around her. Then they got to their knees, just like the innkeeper’s daughter. They had on that same look of wonder, of reverence even. What was it? What had enchanted all of these people? The child? Well, she wasn’t impressed.

Shifra watched as the young mother got up and placed the child into the hay of the feeding trough. Then she joined the others in gathering around the manger, kneeling as if in prayer or worship. Even Berel and his shepherds knelt with heads bowed.

Shifra looked at the baby in the manger and then to everyone gathered around. What could this possibly mean other than perhaps she was still back on her mat asleep and shivering in the cold? But at this moment she didn’t feel cold. She felt more than warmth. The wonder and joy of those gathered in the stable seemed to spread to her. Shifra felt the warmth of it all. She began to relax and took a step toward the manger.

Berel knelt in front of her staring at the child in the manger. Shifra felt her heart grow tense. How could he be here revering a child? Had he lost his mind to the drink again? He didn’t belong in this peaceful place. She nudged him with her foot. He looked up at her with the bliss almost like the dim innkeeper’s daughter. Then he recognized her. He smiled even more broadly at that. Shifra felt her face harden into a glare and Berel’s face turned confused.

“Who did you leave behind this time?” Shifra hissed at him. Berel rose slowly to his feet and took her by the arm.

“No, I’m not one of your sheep,” Shifra whispered as he led her out the stable door. Once they were outside she turned on him. He held his hands up to her.

“Shifra, be calm I implore you,” he said. “This is not the night for anger and bitterness. Let’s be at peace just for now?”

“Why are you here?” she asked him. “Who did you leave alone on a hillside this time to be eaten by wild beast or disappear, never to be seen again? What mother will mourn the loss of a son tonight?” Shifra realized her voice was breaking and she covered her face. Too late. She felt the tears wetting her palms.

“Shifra,” Berel said almost in a whisper. “I will lament the loss of your son for the rest of my life. I was a fool back then to leave him while I went for drink. You have every reason to hate me forever. But for tonight, I ask that you set that aside.”

“I can’t,” Shifra croaked.

“Shifra,” Berel said. “Look.”

Shifra uncovered her face. There outside the stable were almost a hundred sheep. Most had settled to the ground and all of them seemed content.

“Berel,” Shifra said. “Why are you here?”

And Berel told her.

“A messenger of God came to us,” he said. “I was never more frightened in my life. But as soon as he spoke, I wasn’t afraid anymore. In fact he told us to not be afraid. He told us that he brought us good news for everyone. That a child was born that was The Savior.”

Shifra looked at his face. This wasn’t the face of someone on the drink. Was he speaking the truth? This was not the Berel that blustered and fought. He had tried to make peace with her. What had come over this man to change him so?

“The messenger told us that we would find the child here. We came and it is just as we were told. The child is wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger Shifra, exactly as we were told.”

Shifra tried to hush Berel, but he continued.

“Once the messenger told us were to find The Child Christ,” he said even louder. “The sky lit up as if it was dawn with a thousand suns. Yet, we weren’t blinded. We all saw the sky full of these messengers of God. They all were singing praises. Singing glory to God and on Earth peace. Shifra, we said to each other that we must go see this and we came. The sheep followed and we came here and… yes. We were told the truth. It is just as the angel said. And the angel said it was the savior of us all. This child is The Christ.”

“The messiah?” Shifra said. “This is a baby.”

“Jesus,” whispered a voice. Shifra turned and saw the innkeeper’s daughter.

“What did you say?” Shifra asked her.

“His name… Jesus,” the girl said. “He is Christ, the Lord.”

Shifra stared at the innkeeper’s daughter. She still had on the same smile as when she looked at the star.

“The mother shall name him Jesus?” Shifra asked. The girl nodded. “And the mother also told you he is The Christ?”

The girl nodded again. She extended her hand to Shifra. “Come see,” she said.

Shifra looked at Berel. The man had a soft, but huge smile on his face. He nodded to her.

Shifra took the girl’s hand and let herself be led back into the stable. It was still quiet. She shepherds still knelt in reverence. The mother sat by the manger looking at the child. Shifra carefully stepped up to the manger and looked down at the child.

“He is well,” the mother said.

Indeed, the baby was awake and looking around. His eyes of course wouldn’t focus on anything just yet. But he still seemed to be very much aware of everything around him.

“He will be hungry soon,” Shifra said.

She didn’t take her eyes off him. The reverence of everyone around was overwhelming. Even the animals seemed to sense the wonder. Shifra couldn’t deny the awe that she felt.

The look on the mother’s face as if her baby would someday save her. Everyone in the stable kneeling as if in worship, the shepherds, even. And then Berel says he has seen messengers from God who say that this is the promised messiah? This was a baby. He was just a baby boy born in a stable lying in a manger.

This was just as the angel had told Berel. Berel, who had been responsible for the loss of her son. Berel whom she hated. She must not believe him.

She wanted to believe him. She wanted the peace that the mother had.

And she looked at the child at that moment, his eyes fixed on her. His mouth twitched. Newborns didn’t smile. This was nothing. But at that moment, Shifra so wished that it was a real smile. Oh, to have the messiah smile at her. And then she sank to her knees. It was still painful to lower herself, but she didn’t care. She felt in her the desire, the need for this child that looked at her to be just what Berel said.

If this was truly so, the messiah born tonight, how wonderful would that be? Berel had been so heartbroken at the loss of her son. And tonight he was so filled with peace and joy. Shifra wanted that. Would believing bring her that feeling?

The boy began to shake his head back and forth. He was looking. Before Shifra could prompt, the mother lifted the baby and brought him to her. Yes, he would be fine.

And that night in the stable among the animals and shepherds, next to the smiling innkeeper’s daughter, Shifra felt something for the first time in oh so many years. She thought how Berel had described a sky full of angels of God. And that was what she felt in her heart. When the tears came this time, they were of joy.