He looks like anything but a king. His face is prunish and red. His
cry, though strong and healthy, is still the helpless and piercing cry
of a baby. And he is absolutely dependent upon Mary for his well-being.
Majesty in the midst of the mundane. Holiness in the filth of sheep
manure and sweat. Divinity entering the world on the floor of a stable,
through the womb of a teenager and in the presence of a carpenter.
She touches the face of the infant-God. How long was your journey!
This baby had overlooked the universe. These rags keeping him warm were
the robes of eternity. His golden throne room had been abandoned in
favor of a dirty sheep pen. And worshiping angels had been replaced
with kind but bewildered shepherds.
Meanwhile, the city hums. The merchants are unaware that God has
visited their planet. The innkeeper would never believe that he had
just sent God into the cold. And the people would scoff at anyone who
told them the Messiah lay in the arms of a teenager on the outskirts of
their village. They were all too busy to consider the possibility.
Those who missed His Majesty's arrival that night missed it not because
of evil acts or malice; no, they missed it because they simply weren't
looking.
Little has changed in the last two thousand years, has it?
(If you know who the Author of this story is please let me know)
PAGE DEDICATION
To My Friend
Barb
Thank you for sending this story to me.
MERRY CHRISTMAS to everyone that visits this page.
