Halfway through bundling for their pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the Temple and its relinquish, the requirements of the covenant and its blood, Joseph is distracted by the keening of the child. He had never noticed before how like suffering a baby’s cry could be- whining for the womb, sorrowing the irrigates from which it was drawn out and adopted into the world. Half-turning, he would scoop up the baby and beginning him, soothe him from the grief to come; but his mother previously has him in her forearms, regarding him to one tit, whispering secrets.

Halfway through the nighttime, a shepherd switches uneasily in sleep, dreaming of a frightening light-colored, a polyphony of express, but it is only the sheep bleating. They, extremely, still watch the sky for the return of angels.

Halfway through their jaunt, the astronomers, looking for their own sunlight, rail at the cloud cover and deplore to their camels. They set up camp in the desert, closer than they think to the locate of God’s deliverance.

Halfway through dinner, Herod emits and controls his chest. Heartburn. For all the heat of its epithet, his blood moves freezing each time he is reminded of his fatality. He is out of sorts, and he is afraid.

Halfway through a petition, Anna breathers. She can hear Simeon greeting another young duet with his performed patter, putting them at ease with his restless hearts and excite, as though every babe “re coming” these entrances are likely to be, at last, the Messiah. As she listens them murmuring by, gossiping under their breath about Simeon’s zealous confidence, for the first time in decades, Anna realizes that she is hungry.

Halfway through the prayer of acknowledgment, I stumble across the words, “We have not loved you with our whole heart.”

On the sixth daylight, halfway through Christmas, with the wholesomeness of God’s love lying in a manger and the heartlessness of Herod loping riot in wall street; with God’s Incarnate One developed for his first wound, and his mother slowly mending, but her catching her nature in her speak every time he rustles; on the sixth period, Joseph half-turns back, forgetting to pack up the eat he had picked up before the newborn cried, his feeling halfway to heaven and his tone halfway to madness with the wonder of it all.

Featured image: St Joseph with the Infant Jesus, Elisabetta Sirani( Bologna 1638 -1 665 ), c. 1662, photographed by Palmesco, used under Creative Commons BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

The Revd Rosalind C Hughes is an Episcopal priest, scribe, and poet, who helps as Rector of the Church of the Epiphany in Euclid, Ohio. She is the author of A Family Like Mine: Biblical Tales of Love, Loss, and Longing( Upper Room Books, 2020 ), and blogs at over the water/ rosalindhughes.com

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