It’s hard to believe they wouldn’t let her in.
All night the cries of pain, muffled by her husband’s pleas to keep it down.
You’re keeping the whole town up.
He was home with a pregnant girlfriend that was carrying, having a baby not his.
He was still going to marry her so she wouldn’t be stoned.
His first born wouldn’t be his blood, a fact not subtle on his angry father’s face.
You can’t stay here.
And soon in this small town as in most, the word got out,
the bandwagon was joined and there was no one who would give them even floor space for the night.
In a place of the world famous for hospitality no one would go against the grain.
They’re getting what they deserve.
This is what happens when you’re promiscuous.
Bad parenting, his mother couldn’t leave the house for weeks.
What a missed opportunity.
Imagine the one who would have let them in, even just on the floor,
helped with the delivery, helped with the swaddling.
History would have taken note.
We would know their names.
We’d sing a carol about them.
Target would have a special bedding and house ware product line in their honor each Christmas – for a limited time.
But alas, just the poorly shepherds,
the “not the cream of the crop” shepherds.
How long since they had a meal, a shower, washed their face.
They came unprepared, searching among themselves quickly for something to give the family. Out came a crust of bread, an unfinished whittled stick, a few coins.
How many people lay that night in warmth, fed, with family serendipitously visiting by Roman decree, laughing, telling old stories, wishing that the homeless lady would stop her moaning and crying and hurry up and have her illegitimate child already.
Joseph was so embarrassed. His family was shamed. The town was annoyed.
Mary, exhausted, the baby, well, still a newborn wondering why it was so cold.
Only the shepherds were happy that night.
Open my eyes to see
where what is hard to believe
is what you want it to be.