Are They There, Yet?

Riding a donkey didn’t help.

It is the week before we celebrate Christmas, and I was just thinking—are they there yet? 102 miles—walking. A fast pace would be twenty miles a day. Anyone they left their small town with surely would have wanted to go faster, leaving them with a smile and a wave and a shaking of the head. The young man, not yet married to the girl who was, by today’s standards, not even done with middle school, were told they had to return to the city of the father to be counted. There was an order to count—everyone.

I wonder if they did the census or if the baby couldn’t wait and was born first. Do you suppose they counted him, the child, also? I think the man wanted to go early, knowing the walk was going to take days. Knowing his future wife was going to slow them down. He probably didn’t know it was slow them down this much. So much so, there was no place for them to stay, except some family’s stable under their living space. That’s how they lived, animals on the bottom floor, family up some stairs right above them. At least it was dry and warm. Warm from the animals.

Where did they stay along the way? They had some money, enough to buy something to eat, food for the donkey. Not enough for rooms and they had no Motel Six’s along the way. Probably sleeping along the road, finding groups of travelers that looked like they wouldn’t cut their throats while they slept. The girl drew looks and the man, probably told the fellow campers yes, this is my wife, just to keep the questions to a minimum. I guess he could have said it was his little sister and her husband died of Monkeypox and he was responsible for her, but remembered an old story about a guy before him who tried that and almost got his wife and himself killed. So, he stuck with the better truth.

I think today, this Sunday, a week out, they were there. Or real close. I think they arrived before next Sunday, settled in then she went into labor. There was no epidural. Having a baby in those days was a crap shoot as to whether the baby and/or the mother would survive. Both of them had heard and probably even seen stories of such an ending. Fear of an absolute train wreck, if trains would have existed, was in their minds.

But there was something. Apparently, this was part of The Plan. It came in dreams. They were told it would be okay. In my mind, I think there are layers to okay. But they were all in.

Christmas is hard on a lot of people. Nothing we have, really looks like the Hallmark stories. We are sad because life runs us over or just because we are sad, and we don’t know why? Something, money, partners, love or lack of it, reminds us we are not worthy of this. Guess what, this is how sacrificial love looks like. To point to us in the dark and storm and say You, I want you-you are mine and I love you this much.

‘Huh. That much. Why me? All I have is mismatched sox, an STD from high school, I’m overweight, missing teeth, and have this crappy drum my cousin left me when he died of an overdose. Why me?’

‘Shush,’ we hear in our dreams or whispered in our ear. ‘I love you this much, you are white as snow. Now, I want to hear you play that drum. Oh, and we play our instruments LOUD in this family!’

Merry Christmas

Remember, in this family-we play our stuff loud!

Oh, and the proper scotch to pair with this is a Love scotch. McCallan would be good. And no, it’s NOT too early. Don’t be a Sally.