Disclaimer: I do not own the Holy Bible.

The following borrows from Gospel accounts and the accounts of historical persons who have described these events.

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The Birth of the Christ

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The night sky of the City of David is clear and bright. In the valley, up and down the soft slopes surrounding it, there are many houses... but it is none of these that offer shelter to Mary and Joseph after their arduous journey.

At the end of a row of low damp stables behind the inn, among the ruins of an old building, there is a hole, beyond which there is a grotto, an excavation in the mountain. It is here that Mary and Joseph have found refuge, inside this poor stony shelter, sharing the lot of some animals.

This poor shelter seems to contain part of the foundation of the old building, with a roof, a vault formed by rubble supported by course tree trunks. There is hardly any light, and to see better Joseph lights a little lamp that he takes out of the knapsack he is carrying across his shoulders.

Mary stands near the ox. She is cold and she puts her hands on its neck to feel its warmth. The ox makes a slight sound but does not stir; it seems to understand. When Joseph pushes it aside to take a large quantity of hay from the manger and make a bed for Mary, the ox remains calm and quiet. Joseph then pulls down some spare hay into the lower manger. The ox makes room also for the little donkey that, tired and hungry as it is, starts eating at once.

Joseph discovers a battered bucket. He goes out and comes back with some water for the animals. He then sweeps an area of the ground with a handful of twigs, spreads the hay and makes a bed with it near the ox, in the most sheltered and dry corner. But he realizes that the poor hay is damp. He then lights a fire, and with perfect patience, he dries the hay, a handful at a time, holding it near the fire.

Mary, sitting on a low stool, watches and smiles. The hay is now ready and Mary sits down on it after Joseph spreads it for her. Joseph completes the rough furnishings... hanging his mantle as a curtain on the hole that serves as a door. A makeshift protection. He then offers some bread and cheese to Mary and gives her the flask of water.

"Try to sleep now," he says. "I will sit up and watch that the fire does not go out. There is some wood, fortunately. Thus I will be able to save the oil of the lamp."

Mary lies down and Joseph covers here with her own mantle and with the blanket that she had round her feet while they traveled.

"But you... you will be cold."

"No, Mary. I'll be near the fire. Try to rest now."

Mary closes her eyes without insisting. Joseph goes softly into his little corner, sits on the stool, with some dry shoots for the fire near him.

He turns around now and again to look at Mary, and he sees that she is lying quietly. He breaks the little sticks as noiselessly as possible and throws them one at a time onto the little fire, so that it may not go out and may give some light and yet make the wood last longer.

There is only the light of the fire. The lamp has been put out and in the half darkness only Joseph's hands and face can be seen. All the rest is obscured in the dull dim light.

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Now the little fire is dozing together with its guardian. Mary lifts her head slowly from her bed and looks round. She sees that Joseph's head is bowed over his chest, as if he were meditating, and she sees that his good intention to remain awake has been overcome by tiredness. She smiles lovingly.

Mary sits up and then goes on her knees. She prays with a blissful smile on her face. She prays with her arms stretched out, almost in the shape of a cross, with the palms of her hands facing up and forward, and she never seems to tire in that position. A long prayer.

Joseph rouses. He notices that the fire is almost out and the stable almost dark. He throws a handful of very slender heath on to the fire and the flames are revived. He then adds some thicker twigs and sticks because the cold is really biting: the cold of a serene winter night that comes into the ruins from everywhere.

Indeed Joseph must be nearly frozen sitting as he is near the door, which is really merely a hole where his mantle serves as a curtain. He warms his hands near the fire, then takes his sandals off and warms his feet. When the fire is blazing and its light is steady, he turns round; but he cannot see anything now looking into the dark interior of the grotto. He gets up slowly and moves towards Mary's bed of hay, where she is now prostrate in prayer.

"Are you not sleeping, Mary?" he asks with concern.

She turns around and replies with a gentle smile, "I am praying."

"Is there anything you need?"

"No, thank you, Joseph."

"Try to sleep a little. At least try to rest."

"I will try. But I don't get tired praying."

"God be with you, Mary."

"And with you, Joseph."

Mary resumes her position. Joseph, to avoid falling asleep, goes on his knees near the fire and prays. He prays with his hands pressed against his face. He removes them now and again to feed the fire and then he resumes his ardent prayer. Apart from the noise of the crackling sticks, no other sound is heard.

A thin ray of moonlight creeps in through a crack in the vault and it seems a blade of unearthly silver looking for Mary. It stretches in length as the moon climbs higher in the sky and at last reaches her. It is now on her head, where it forms a halo of pure light.

Mary lifts her head, as if she had a celestial call, and she gets up and goes on to her knees again. How beautiful it is now! She raises her head, and her face shines in the white moonlight and becomes transfigured by a supernatural smile. What does she see? What does she hear? What does she feel? She is the only one who can tell what she saw, heard and felt in the refulgent hour of her maternity. The light around her is increasing more and more. It seems to come down from Heaven, it seems to arise from the poor things around her, above all it seems to originate from within herself.

Her deep blue dress now seems of a pale myosotis blue, and her hands and face are becoming clear as if they were placed under the glare of a huge pale sapphire. This hue is spreading more and more on the things around her, it covers them, purifies them and brightens everything.

The light is given off more and more intensely from Mary's body; it absorbs the moonlight. She seems to be drawing to herself all the light that can descend from Heaven. She is now the depositary of the Light. She is to give this Light to the world.

This blissful, uncontainable, immeasurable, eternal, divine Light which is about to be given, is heralded by a dawn, a morning star, a chorus of atoms of Light that increase continuously like a tide, and rise more and more like incense, and descend like a large stream and stretch out like veils...

The dark smoky vault, full of crevices and protruding rubble, now seems the ceiling of a royal hall. Each boulder is a block of sliver; each crack is an opal flash. The hay from the upper manger is no longer grass blades; it is pure silver wires quivering in the air with the grace of loose hair.

The dark wood of the lower manger is a block of burnished silver. The walls are covered with a brocade of white silk and pearl embroidery. The soil is a crystal lit up by a white light; its protrusions are like roses thrown in homage...

And the light increases more and more. It becomes unbearable to the eye. And the Virgin disappears in so much light, as if she had been absorbed by an incandescent curtain...

...and the Mother emerges.

Yes. As the light becomes endurable once again, Mary now holds the new-born Son in her arms.

A rosy Baby, bustling with His tiny hands and kicking with His tiny feet. He is crying with a soft trembling voice, just like a new-born lamb. He moves His little round head that His mother holds in the hollow of her hand, while she looks at her Baby and adores Him, weeping and smiling at the same time. She bends down to kiss Him not on His head, but on the centre of His chest, where underneath there is His little heart beating for us... where one day there will be the Wound.

The ox, woken up by the dazzling light, gets up with a great noise of hooves and bellows, and the donkey turns its head round and brays. It is the light that rouses them... but it is indeed as though they want to greet their Creator.

Joseph, who was praying so ardently as to be isolated from what was around him, now rouses... and he sees a strange light filter through the fingers of his hands pressed against his face. He removes his hands, lifts his head and turns round.

Mary calls him, "Joseph, come."

Joseph rushes. When he sees, he stops, struck by reverence, and he is about to fall on his knees where he is. But Mary insists, "Come, Joseph," and, holding the Child close to her heart with her right hand, she gets up and moves towards Joseph, who is walking slowly, because of a conflict in him between his desire to go and his fear of being irreverent.

They meet at the foot of the straw bed and they look at each other, weeping blissfully.

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After a time, Mary speaks. "Come, let us offer Jesus to the Father," she says... and thus while Joseph kneels down, she stands and lifts up her Son in her arms and says, " On His behalf, O God, I speak these words to You: Here are Your servants, O Lord. May Your will always be done by us, in every hour, in every event, for Your glory and Your love."

Then Mary bends down and says, "Here, Joseph, take Him," and offers him the Child.

"I?... Me?... Oh no, I am not worthy!"

But Mary insists smiling, "You are well worthy. No one is more worthy than you are, and that is why the Most High chose you. Take Him, Joseph, and hold Him while I look for the linens."

Joseph, blushing, stretches his arms out and takes the Baby, Who is crying because of the cold, and when he has Him in his arms, he no longer persists in the intention of holding Him far from himself, out of respect, but he presses Him to his heart and bursts in tears exclaiming, "O Lord, my God!"

He bends down to kiss the tiny feet and he feels them cold. He then sits on the ground, and holds Him close to his chest, and with his tunic and his hands he tries to cover Him, and warm Him, defending Him from the bitterly cold wind of the night. He would like to go near the fire, but there is a cold draft there coming in from the door. It is better to stay where he is. No, it is better to go between the two animals which serve as a protection against the air and give out warmth. Thus, he goes between the ox and the donkey, with his back to the door, bending over the New-Born to form a shelter, the two sides of which are a grey head with long ears, and a huge white muzzle with two gentle soft eyes.

Mary has opened the trunk and has pulled out the linens and swaddling clothes. She has been near the fire warming them. She now moves towards Joseph and envelops the Baby with lukewarm linen and then with her veil to protect His little head. "Where shall we put Him now?" she asks.

Joseph looks around, thinking... "Wait," he says. "Let us move the animals and their hay over here... We will then pull down that hay up there and arrange it in here. The wood on the side will protect Him from the air, the hay will serve as a pillow and the ox will warm Him a little with its breath. The ox is better than the donkey. It is more patient and quiet." So he moves about, while Mary is lulling the Baby, holding Him close to her heart, and laying her cheek on His tiny head to warm it.

Joseph makes up the fire, without economy this time, to have a good blaze. He warms the hay and as it dries up, he keeps it near his chest, so that it will not get cold. Then, when he has gathered enough to make a little mattress for the Child, he goes to the manger and sorts it out as if it were a cradle. "It is ready," he says. "Now we would need a blanket, because the hay stings, and also to cover Him."

"Take my mantle," says Mary.

"You will be cold."

"It does not matter. The blanket is too coarse. The mantle is soft and warm. I am not cold at all. Don't let Him suffer."

Joseph takes the wide mantle of soft dark blue wool, and he folds it and lays it on the hay, leaving a strip hanging out of the manger. The first bed for the Saviour is ready.

The Mother moves to the manger, lays Him in it, and covers Him with the strip of her mantle. She arranges it also around His bare head, almost completely covered by the hay, from which it is protected only by Mary's thin veil. Only His little face, the size of a fist, is left uncovered.

The warmth of the clothes and of the hay has appeased His crying and made Him sleepy. All is silent. Mary and Joseph, bending over the manger, are blissfully happy watching Him sleep His first sleep...

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"Rest your soul in the light of this dawn."