The uphill journey from Jericho to Jerusalem had taken its usual toll. Mary felt faint. Through the city and out the western gate, Joseph walked beside her, shoulders sagging. The sun settled quietly, golden and red, its radiant crown disappearing over the rising horizon. Deepening twilight crept across the Judean countryside. A soft glow from the light of Bethlehem lay in the distance. A welcome sight to both of them. "There it is my darling," said Joseph quietly. "Our new home. I hope there are enough consumers and critics of wood in this town to support us."

"God will support us, Joseph," scolded Mary playfully. Exhausted Mary. How could she laugh? "Where is your faith? Do you think He would ever abandon his Son?" A prophetic question, ominous with portent.

Joseph, of course, could not have recognized any prophetic portent. "I am glad to see you are still in light spirits," he smiled. Mary smiled back. Smiles were becoming to her. Despite her distended abdomen, perhaps because of it, her smiles were radiant and beautiful.

The lights of Bethlehem drew closer. You could hear laughter now. Torches penetrating the night. People moving about. Though the day crept toward evening, the crowds were restive. Family and friends who hadn't seen each other for months or years were joyfully reuniting. Merchants and concessionaires, followers and hangers-on of human traffic, hawked their wares. The surrounding countryside spoke of peace and solicitude. The city spoke activity, energy and commerce. "Now to find a place to spend the night," said Joseph with the naive expectation of a young, inexperienced traveler.

"Oh!" from Mary. Joseph, alarmed at her tone, looked at her quizzically. Mary grasped her abdomen. "Oh!" again. Her face grimaced. Joseph did not need to be told what was happening. "Oh Joseph!" this time in anguish, "My water!" Each word, each syllable she spoke was an exclamation followed by sucking breath. He could see the clear liquid dripping from the flanks of the ass. Abruptly, Mary's eyes rolled up into her head with the intensity of the first sharp pain, "Oh my Lord God! Joseph! Please! Hurry!" Joseph looked at her as all men look at their wives at this moment, helpless and afraid.

No one along the road seemed to notice what was happening. No one stopped to help. No one paid attention to the young woman on the ass, leaning against her husband lest she fall. No family, no aunts or uncles, no grandparents, not even a supportive friend. No one to hold them up. No one to sustain them. Mary and Joseph were alone, lost in a world of humanity scurrying about their own concerns. She began to weep. "Please, God?" she whimpered. Joseph was no veteran father. He, too, was young and inexperienced in these things. He was not much help. Slowly, the instruction of Elizabeth came seeping through the walls of pain and loneliness. "Joseph, we must find a place for me to lie down. Now!" Her dazed husband looked at her again, as if wondering how she could be rational at a time like this.

"An inn!" Joseph's reason asserted itself. "I must find an inn." He reeled forward, yanking the reins of the ass to make it walk faster. Mary lurched, but held on.

As it is in so many towns and cities, places to stay the night were erected near the perimeter of the city. One of the first structures they approached happened to be an inn. Joseph entered the door and found an innkeeper sitting at a table pushing around tablets and looking stressed. "I need a room for the night," said Joseph, "My wife is . . ."

"You will not find a room in this town tonight, young man. Can't you see Bethlehem is flooded with travelers? This is David's city. Everybody wants to be of the house and lineage of David," he went on with practiced disdain. The shock on Joseph's face did not register with the innkeeper, bewildered and stupefied by the question, What to do!?

"My wife," he stammered, "My wife is with child." Then urgency gripped him. "Please," he implored the innkeeper, "My wife is giving birth to a baby. She is in pain. My God, man, isn't there something you can do?"

The innkeeper sobered thoughtfully, not a heartless man, but what could he do? "Already I am overcrowded. I cannot take away someone's room who has already paid. I'm sorry, there is not much I can do for you." An embarrassed pause. "I don't know what to say." Resignation. He hoped Joseph could comprehend the obvious.

"You have nothing? Nothing at all?" This cannot be happening, thought Joseph anxious and panicked.

"Not unless you want the stable," responded the innkeeper lifting his hands, shrugging his shoulders as if explaining an absurdity. Joseph saw no absurdity at all.

"Yes!" he said in relief, "Yes! The stable! How much?" The innkeeper just stared at Joseph. It was only a few seconds but to Joseph, it seemed longer. "How much?" he demanded.

"Keep your money," from the innkeeper. "You can stay there without charge." Not a man lacking in kindness, Young people! He thought, as he rose from the table shaking his head, "Follow me." Joseph did as instructed. He plodded through the door and around the corner of the building, Joseph in his train. A low structure loomed in the darkness. For all the troubling features of this scene, the innkeeper felt a satisfying sense of warmth. God help them, a prayer again, of mere thought.

It appeared incongruous for an inn to boast of a stable. Stables were usually the province of farmers and shepherds, housing animals of the field and pasture. The more popular inns, however, maintained such stables for the animals of their guests. They were populated with the usual conveyances, camels, donkeys, an occasional ox. Located at the rear of the inn, this stable stood separate from the main building, adjoining it a large sheepfold where shepherds lodged their sheep for the night. The air hung heavy with the usual smells of animal waste, hay and the body odors of the animals, smells both pleasant and unpleasant. It was a stable. Creatures crowded, both inside and outside. Three camels lay squatting on the ground around the entrance to the stable, their nostrils blowing cloud puffs into the cold evening air. Within, Joseph found a small enclosure, filled it with fresh hay, spread robes and blankets on the hay and there Mary, with difficulty, laid herself down.

An hour passed. Then two. The scurrying about outside in the streets had subsided to an occasional inebriated soul who had imbibed too much wine. Dust from the day had settled. Airs grew cooler, a blessing not lost on the birthing young mother whose brow beaded with sweat. People asleep. Inside the stable it was warmer. Not much, but enough. The body heat from the asses and oxen made life slightly more comfortable. An occasional chicken perched here and there with peeping eyes signifying an end to the day's scratching and clucking. Quiet scurries of small creatures. Mary lay sweating and wincing, her chest heaving, her abdomen contracting.