So this is Christmas.
All those years ago (maybe in December, probably in September) Mary started labor.
She'd been walking or riding on a bony-backed, plodding donkey. Every jolting step must have caused her more pain, but the fatigue also made it impossible to walk.
She was eighty miles from home and help and comfort. No mama to coach her through the process, to reassure her about what is normal or not. Mary, so scared & so alone.
The city was so crowded there was not one warm room available. Joseph's relatives must've moved on, too.
Did she wonder: How can I have my baby in a flea-full, stinky, poopy, drafty, dark, cold, wet cave? How will he survive? Is this really God's plan? These are the questions I would have asked.
Mary did it, though. She made it through these dire circumstances - trusting in the Truth; delivering her Deliverer; comforting her Comforter; suffering for the One who would suffer for her at His passion.
I cannot talk to her now, but when I get to heaven, I will thank her for her faith, submission, determination. And for giving birth to our Savior.
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