Last year, in December, I wrote this:
For about ten years, starting in 1994, I wrote an annual Christmas Story. The first two were written while I was a missionary. I'd send them home to be read on Christmas Eve and in that way I would participate in the family's Christmas festifities. The only rule (self-imposed) was that the story had to revisit the nativity in one way or another. These are not the best writings ever written, but they are heartfelt. I will post several of them over the next few days.
I posted three last year; I'll post a few more this year.
Christmas 1997
Mary squinted to see her husband. Although they were married, she felt as if she didn’t know Joseph as well as a
wife should. Their marriage had been
arranged by the master and he was only interested in the next generation of
slaves.
Mary had heard that other masters
encouraged love and voluntary marriages.
But not Master Johnson, he was all business.
Mary was very lucky to have gotten
Joseph. He was strong and handsome. He had a quick wit and didn’t mind laughing,
but his quiet, reflective side was his most attractive quality.
The day they jumped the broom,
Joseph took her to the tiny shack they would share with another family. He
said, “I won’t never harm you. You is my
wife, legal as any man anywhere.”
She believed him.
Joseph looked up from his spatula;
he had been tarring the roof. For some
reason the master had given him some precious free time to work on the tiny
shack. It was rare to have a day off,
especially in such fine weather.
November had been unusually warm and the cotton crop was still being
baled and exported.
Surely, there was much to do, but
Joseph didn’t question. Joseph saw Mary
peeking around the corner of the tiny shack.
She was so beautiful to him even seven months pregnant.
“Joseph, the master wants us up to
the house.”
When the two arrived at the
plantation house a man they had never seen before was standing on the steps,
his voice was soft as he announced, “Thomas F. Johnson has died, in his will he
has freed the persons of color in his possession.”
Twenty-five slaves stood
there. No noise. No one breathed. They couldn’t. Freedom in their lifetime was merely a dream,
but now it was a reality. Joseph pulled
Mary close, “we leavin’ here.”
Philadelphia was so far away,
especially in winter. Mary could never
walk that far. She never asked where he
got the donkey. It would hurt him if she
accused him of stealing; perhaps he traded for it. Whatever the case she was grateful for its
warm body beneath her.
The journey was truly difficult.
Joseph’s feet, ears, and nose were sore—probably frostbitten. Mary had been jarred and thrown by the
plodding donkey; she was completely weak when they arrived in Philadelphia.
“We gots to find a stable so’s I
can sell this beast to get some money for a roof.”
Joseph looked up; in the distance
there was pole with a lamp blazing from its top. Joseph felt compelled to follow the
light.
From a side ally Mary could hear
singing. “Listen Joseph, they’re singing
about the baby Jesus. You sing to me
Joseph.” Joseph’s deep baritone filled
the streets.
“In Bethlehem a child is born/ Oh
angel come and blow your horn/ the Christ Child he/ the Christ Child he.”
Just below the street lamp Joseph
found a stable. Night had fallen on the
city and the stable seemed deserted. He
knocked on the door, no answer. He
knocked more loudly, still no answer.
Joseph tried the handle. The door
swung open. He peered into the dark
building, just horses and straw.
“Joseph!” Mary cried, “the baby.”
There in the stable on that cold
winter’s night, Joseph and Mary brought forth their first child, right next to
the manger. Joseph held Emmanuel as Mary
drifted off to sleep. It was Christmas.
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