2 Ne. 25:19
19 For according to the words of the prophets, the Messiah
cometh in six hundred years from the time that my father left
Jerusalem; and according to the words of the prophets, and also the word of
the angel of God, his name shall be Jesus Christ, the Son
of God.
Dr. Ralph F.
Wilson
They think
I'm some kind of cruel, heartless landlord. Someone must have told them that.
But they're wrong, just plain wrong, and it's time to set the record straight,
once and for all.
People say
I'm an innkeeper. I suppose you'd call it an inn. To us it's just a big house.
My grandfather, Joshua ben-Yahoudi, built it back when his trading business was
at a peak. And he built it big enough to fit all fourteen kids.
Well, a few
years ago, the missus and I were just rattling around in that big house--kids
grown up and all--and we were thinking, maybe we could take in a few travelers.
Rachel has always been mighty good in the kitchen, so we just let out word that
we'd take people in, and they started to come. Every night we'd have a person
or two, sometimes more. People would always come back when they came to town
again, intent on another bowl of Rachel's lamb stew.
Then came
that blankety-blank census the governor thought up. Taxation, pure and simple!
People from all over the province flooded into town that week. Filled us clean
up. Rachel and I slept in the main room where we always do, and we started
putting guests in the other three rooms. They kept coming. Then we doubled up
two or three families to a room. They kept coming. Finally, when we had filled
the main room with four families plus Rachel and me, we started turning people
away.
I must have
gotten in and out of bed ten times that night, stumbling over bodies to get to
the door. "No more room, sorry folks. No more room. Come back in the
morning. We have a couple of families leaving then." They'd mutter
something and head back to their party, and sleep somewhere next to a house
under the shelter of a blanket. I just couldn't make any more room. That's the
honest truth.
But I did
make room for one more couple. Joseph was a burly man with big arms and strong
hands, down from Nazareth, I think he said. He wouldn't take "no" for
an answer. I would say, "No, I'm sorry," and he'd tell me about his
"little Mary." Well, when I saw "little Mary" she wasn't
very little. She was just about as pregnant as a woman can get, and awfully
pale. While Joseph was pleading, I saw her grab her tummy in pain, and I knew I
couldn't let her have that baby outside in the wind and sleet.
The barn.
That would just have to do, I told myself, and led them and their donkey out
back. Now it was pretty crowded, so I shooed several animals into the pen
outside to make room in one dry corner. Joseph said, "We sure are
grateful, sir." Then with a serious look, he asked me, "Do you know
where I can find a midwife in these parts? We might need her tomorrow or the
next day."
That man
didn't know much about having babies, it was plain enough to see. I ran to Aunt
Sarah's house and pounded on the door until her husband came. "One of the
travelers is having a baby," I told him. "I'll wait while Aunt Sarah
gets dressed." I stopped a moment to catch my breath. "And tell her
to hurry."
By the time
we got back to the barn, Joseph had "little Mary" settled on some
soft, clean hay, wrapped up in a blanket, wiping the perspiration off her brow,
and was speaking softly to her as she fought the waves of pain. Aunt Sarah sent
me to get my Rachel, and then pushed Joseph and me out of the barn. "This
ain't no place for men," she said.
We waited
just outside in the shelter of the barn for hours, it seemed like. Well, all of
a sudden, we hear a little cry. "You've got a baby boy," Aunt Sarah
was saying as we peeped around the corner. She hands the young-un to Rachel,
and she wraps it up in those swaddling bands she had saved. Cute little thing,
I tell you.
Well, Joseph
goes over to Mary and gives her a big hug, and a kiss on the cheek, and Rachel
hands Mary the baby, and then comes over to me and takes my hand.
"Remember when our Joshua was born?" she whispers.
The lantern
was blowing almost out, the cattle were lowing softly, and baby Jesus was
asleep in his mother's arms. That's how I left them as I walked Aunt Sarah
home. Chilly wind, though the sleet had stopped.
By the time
I got back, Rachel was in bed, and I was about ready to put out the light, step
over sleeping bodies, and get under the warm covers, when I heard some
murmuring out by the barn.
I'd better check,
I told myself. When I peeped in, I saw shepherds. Raggedy, smelly old shepherds
were kneeling down on the filthy barn floor as if they were praying. The oldest
one was saying something to Joseph about angels and the Messiah. And the rest
of them just knelt there with their heads bowed, some with tears running down
their faces.
I coughed
out loud, and Joseph looked up. I was almost ready to run those thieving
shepherds off, when Joseph motioned to me with his hand. "It's okay,"
he whispered. "They've come to see the Christ-baby."
The
Christ-baby? The Messiah? That was when I knelt, too. And watched, and prayed,
and listened to the old shepherd recount his story of angels and heavenly
glory, and the sign of a holy baby, wrapped in swaddling bands, to be found in
a stable-manger.
My Lord, it
was my stable where the Christ-baby was born. My manger he rested in. My straw,
my lamp, my wife Rachel assisting at his birth.
The
shepherds left after a while. Some of them leaned over and kissed the sleeping
Christ-child before they departed. I know I did.
I'll always
be glad I made room in the barn for that family-- that holy family. You see,
I'm not some mean inn-keeper. I was there. I saw him. And, you know, years
later that boy came back to Bethlehem, this time telling about the Kingdom of
God. Oh, I believe in him, I tell you. I was there. And, mark my words, if
you'd seen what I've seen, you'd be a believer, too.
HCJB World
Radio in Quito, Ecuador, Christmas 2004
