A/N: I have wanted to write something about this for... about two years or more. Something in youth group reminded me I still had not written it, so I sat down to to it when I got home. Enjoy!

Sacrifice

A cry of anguish is heard in Ramah--
weeping and mourning unrestrained.
Rachel weeps for her children,
refusing to be comforted--for they are dead.
- Matthew 2:18

We, my husband and I, thought I was barren. It had been six years—six years—since our arranged marriage, and I still could not produce a child, not even a daughter. I prayed and wept, for I feared he might take another wife. He was the last of his line; he needed a son. I would not blame him for finding someone younger and prettier than I am. Yet I was selfish, and I wanted to please him. He honored me and promised to wait.

Then my little Joseph was born to me. We loved him, he was everything we wanted. He took after his father in looks, with his curly dark hair, though he had my large eyes. Since infancy he was fascinated by his father's pottery. He always wanted to play with (and eat) the clay. Our friends would smile and say another good potter was on the way, and my husband would smile at our son and I would know I had pleased him.

Soon after I had given birth (while Joseph still slept almost the full day) a call went out for all to go to their home towns. I did not have to worry about this, for my husband is from Bethlehem, where we lived. Many people crowded our small town, and I seem to remember seeing a bright star shining for some weeks—months?—around then. But at that time my only star was Joseph, and I did not look at much else.

I well remember the day Joseph took his first toddling steps. He grinned with his endearing smile, reaching out to his father who sat only a foot away. "Come, come to me, Joseph." I slowly let go of his chubby fingers, and he toppled over. We laughed and set him upright again, and he watched us with large eyes before struggling up to stumble toward his father again. I smiled as I helped him, thinking of the strong young man he would be some day. He would be a runner for my husband's errands at first, and everyone would think him a very fast and handsome boy. We would arrange his marriage easily to a beautiful girl, and they would be happy together when the time came. He would be a potter well known in the surrounding country, and I would never need to worry for him.

He began to form words with his untrained mouth, and my husband and I doted on him for hours just to hear one misshaped name. One day, after much coxing, he said both 'mama' and 'papa'. My husband picked him up and flew him around the room, and we all laughed, and I imagined how fine a singer my son would be some day. I thanked my God he was mine.

My husband put him to bed early that night, and turning from the cradle smiled at me. I smiled back, as content as I have ever been. We were just turning to close up our small house when the banging began. My husband went to the door while I made sure Joseph had not been woken. I listened to my husband's voice with the man at the door. "Do you have a child?" "Yes." "How old?" "About two."

Then they were shoving past my husband into our house. Joseph had just woken up, and I picked him up to calm his whimpers. The men—roman soldiers—saw me and went toward me. I was suddenly afraid, though even then I did not realize what I feared, and I shrunk against the wall. My husband shouted at the men to get away. One grabbed my hair and the other tore at my arms. Joseph started screaming, my husband ran to stop them, there was a horrible smash and my husband fell back.

Joseph—where was Joseph? Somehow he had fallen from my arms. I screamed at them, weeping even as I did. Then I saw the little heap on the floor, and my screams died. The men left, shoving past me, and everything was silent—except for the screams and weeping in houses down the street and across the city. My husband did not move, and neither did the bundle.

I dropped to my knees beside it and looked at the legs of my errand runner, twisted and broken. My hand reached out, trembling, and I pushed aside the little blanket. My baby lay there, still and silent, blood covering his little body. With a sob I gathered him into my arms, and I heard his quiet voice mumble, "Mama?"

I sobbed something, and I did not know my voice. I continued to sob my prayers, begging him not to die while his little body grew cold and stiff in my arms. I wailed… I do not know how long. It was some time around dawn that strong arms came around my shoulders, and my husband was holding me as I clung to him and my child.

They said the messiah had come and our king wanted him killed. My little Joseph was killed because he could have been the messiah. I do not know whether to feel hopeful—perhaps the true savior is finally here—or bitter, for my son had to die for the safety of someone I do not even know is really alive.

I hope, and pray, that my son will be remembered for his sacrifice.