Medford mail tribune., December 25, 1960, Image 37

No Room For Him
(Continued from page 7)
The next day was as the first, except that there
was a brief fury of rain and wind. But when Jo
seph would look at her with fear, she would smile
at him gently and encouragingly. The night was
pure misery. It was raining again, and Joseph
could not keep a fire alight on the stones of an
other cave.
It was the same the next day and the next night.
On the last day, along the roads which the Romans
had built, and which were wide and straight, they
encountered hundreds of fellow travelers whose
destination was theirs, Bethlehem or Jerusalem.
Some were as poor as themselves; babies and chil
dren squalled restlessly. Some few were rich and
rode in fine chariots, pulled by fine sleek horses,
and with servants about them. The crowds jostled
Mary and Joseph and their little ass on which
Mary swayed with fatigue. No one noticed them
or cared about them. Joseph's heart grew heavier
and heavier. No room for us, anywhere, he thought.
Not even the warmer countryside could lift his
heart; not even the sight of large villages could en
courage him. He and Mary would not enter Jeru
salem; they would skirt the mighty' city to reach
the little town of Bethlehem, with its flat yellow
roofs, its tiny, wandering streets, its mean little
shops, its two or three inns. It was a poor town,
and only the poor could be found there. Still, the
inns would be crowded.
"Be Not Afraid"
Groaning in himself, footsore and aching and
trembling with tiredness and worry, Joseph urged
the little ass along as fast as he dared. They must
reach Bethlehem before it was totally dark, or
sleep along the road, completely without shelter.
"Do not be afraid, Joseph," said Mary. Her voice,
as always, was sweet and tender, but now Joseph
heard pain in it. Her words ended in a gasp.
"It is your time!" he cried.
"Yes," she said, slowly. "I think it is."
She was not afraid, but Joseph was filled with
terror, a terror too strong for prayer. Roughly he
pulled on the beast's halter, stumbling, sometimes
falling, his ankles turning on unseen stones in the
weary half-dark. He forgot his own exhaustion
and misery. Somewhere, he had to find shelter for
Mary in Bethlehem. His few coins jingled in his
pouch. So few of them! Who would take them in?
They, the refugees, the poor, the oppressed?
Gasping with relief, Joseph could finally see the
feeble lights of Bethlehem just ahead now, beyond
the next turn in the road. Mary was utterly silent,
except for an occasional soft moan, smothered and
suppressed. The little beast on which she rode
struggled on, as if aware that he must hurry. Now
it was very dark. But they had reached the out
skirts of Bethlehem, and lanterns shone on closed
doors and lamps stared at them weakly through
slits of windows. Joseph caught the sleeve of one
man as he passed.
"Please!" he stammered, "where is the nearest
inn? My wife . . ."
"Ho!" said the man, impatiently, pulling his
sleeve away. "There is no room in the inn!"
He hurried away, and Joseph stood still for a
moment, drawing up his last strength. No room
in the inn. He had feared that, but now the fact
confronted him starkly. Then he felt Mary's hand
on his shoulder, pressing it slightly, and he moved
on with tears in his eyes, and with exhaustion.
111111
When he saw the inn, he knew it was hopeless.
The courtyard milled with asses and horses and
an occasional camel or two. Noise poured through
every window and door. "Wait," Joseph said to
Mary. He pushed his way through the mobs in
the small public room. Joseph blinked in the light.
The room was warm, and the noise was shattering.
Desperately, at last, Joseph hurried after the
host, a fat and ruddy man wearing a dirty white
apron. Finally he caught him. The man turned to
him angrily. "There's no room at the table!" he
yelled over the clamor. "You'll have to wait!"
"No, no," said Joseph. "We have some food. It's
my wife the child her time is on her. She is
in labor ..."
Guests were shouting at the host for more serv
ice. But he paused and looked at Joseph with pity.
"There is no room in the inn," he said. "The other
inn is filled, too."
"Where shall we go?" cried Joseph in his ex
tremity. "The child cannot be born on the street
or in the fields! We must have shelter!"
The host balanced his huge tray on his broad
shoulder. He looked at the poor man before him.
He said at last, "There's only one place, the stable,
the cave at the end of the road. It is full of our
cattle, but it is shelter, and it is warm. God be
with you," he added hastily and raced off. Stupe
fied with his despair and tiredness, Joseph left the
inn. The little ass was patiently standing near the
door; Mary sat slumping on his back, a huddle
of clothes and blankets.
"There is no room," he said to her hoarsely.
"There is only a cave with cattle nearby."
Spent, she could only nod in acceptance, and
Joseph took up the halter again and led the beast
and his burden down the road a little distance.
Yes, there was the cave with a lantern at the
aperture and, within, the donkeys and oxen stood
in their stalls, knee-deep in hay.
Joseph carried Mary into the cave and placed her
on a heap of straw and brought the blankets and
spread them for her. She looked about vaguely,
her eyes wide and glazed, and again her husband
remembered how young she was, how friendless
and alone except for himself. There would be no
mother here to comfort and help her, no sister,
no midwife. There was no one to pray for her in
her extremity except her husband.
She lay on the blankets, and Joseph spread an
other upon her. The scarves fell from her head;
her shining hair lay about her like a wide halo.
Her body quivered with birth pangs. Then she
opened her eyes and looked at her husband, and
she smiled at him with her pure serenity and faith,
and he was comforted.
A pale and silvery light mingled with the lantern
light of the door. It crept into the shadowy cave.
It glinted on the eyes of every beast, and each
stood very still, breathing audibly. It is warm here,
thought Joseph, numbly. We have a protection
from the night. Then Joseph recalled something,
and he stepped to the door of the cave and looked
at the sky. A huge soft star, as silvery as the moon,
was beginning to glow overhead; it was as if it were
being born at that very moment, as Mary's child
was being born. Too tired to wonder, too fearful
to speak, Joseph returned to his wife.
Mnry had not come unprepared, for though
hardly past 14 she was prudent in the ways of
women. As she lay on the blankets, she nodded
toward a bundle Joseph had laid down close at
hand, and he opened the bundle and found the
swaddling clothes for a child in them. He put them
near Mary. The beasts in the cave crept nearer,
fixing their tremendous eyes on the girl at their
feet. Their warm breath enfolded her. They, with
Joseph, waited.
The silvery light at the door of the cave became
more intense, more vivid than a full moon. And
then the Child was born, crying aloud, and He
was in His mother's arms, and she was wrapping
Him lovingly and joyfully in the swaddling clothes.
She held Him to her breast and gave Him the
first kiss and laughed happily. She was a girl
again, and rapturous. "My Son," she said to Jo
seph, and Joseph took the Child in his arms. Mary
rose and lined a manger with a blanket, and
Joseph laid the Child in the manger, and the girl
and her husband looked at Him with a bliss that
only they could know.
"All Is Calm, All Is Bright"
"Now, you must sleep, Mary," said Joseph, and
he led her back to the blanket-covered heap of
straw. She closed her eyes obediently, smiling, but
she did not sleep. It was as if she were waiting for
someone, or for some tidings. Joseph looked down
at her, and his heart was full again with pain,
remembering her sufferings and the journey and
their homelessncss.
He let her lie in quiet, and he glanced into the
manger where the Child slept, as serene and still
as His mother. Joseph's head dropped on his chest,
and he went to the opening of the cave. The stnr
in the sky was almost too brilliant for his weary
eyes; it stood in its place, directly over the cave,
not moving, but burning and turning on itself like
a newborn planet. Joseph put his hands over his
face and cried from his very heart, "There was no
room for Him. There is no room for Him!"
The people in the inn, hearing of the star, came
out to look at it and point and shout their wonder
ment and fear, but Joseph did not sec them nor
hear them. He could only repeat aloud, over and
over, "There is do room for Him!"
There was no room jor Him in the Roman world
oj nearly 2,000 years ago. Is there room for Him
today in this modern world? Room in our hearts?
Or shall we have to say: "No, there was never any
room jor Him. We look all that He gave us, but
we had no room jor Him"?
Family Weekly. December 25, I960
15