Julien's Journal December 2016 (Volume 41, Number 12) | Page 36

FEATURES

Born in
Bethlehem

W
by Elizabeth Kelsey

ith a quiet sigh, the woman swept the
last cobwebs out the door, knowing
that by morning the spiders would
have done their work and reclaimed the
corners once again. Wearily, she leaned
the broom against the table and sank into the chair, resting her
head on her hand.
Shutting her eyes against all the work which still remained
to finish before morning, Theresa fervently wished once again
that Jeremiah had never left them – left her – in such a time.
Of course, she knew that it couldn’t be helped. Caesar
Augustus had ordered the census, that the whole empire was to
be registered and counted, and all men were to go to their town
of birth, bringing their family with them.
They had rejected that last decree at once. Laughable that
they all should drop everything, close the inn, their only source
of income, the only thing that put their meager bread on the
table, for weeks... likely months? Impossible, Jeremiah had
determined, and she had agreed.
But they could not ignore a direct imperial decree.
Jeremiah had decided to make the journey alone, leaving her
behind with the boys, the inn, and more work than Theresa had
ever known.
It seemed hardly possible to Theresa that so many people could
ever have been born in Bethlehem. Yet day after day, they came,
34  ❖  Julien’s Journal 

on donkeys, on horses, on foot, flooding the inn and sweeping her
completely off her feet. Within the first two days her rooms had
filled, and in the week since she had turned away more people
than she ever dreamed would knock on the door.
Such a waste. Why did they all have to come at the same time?
Of course, there would be no room.
Moving about the room, she pushed in the chairs, brushed off
the table, and straightened the mat. One at a time, she blew out
the lamps. She started up the stairs with the last lamp in hand
when she heard the gentle tapping on the door.
Half-smiling, half-sighing, she padded silently back down the
steps, crossed to the door, lifted the latch, and pushed it open.
A young man stood before her. Theresa wasn’t exactly sure of
ages, but his beard was tawny, his hands calloused and strong.
She was taken aback, though, by his worn, lined face. In that
respect, he seemed much older. He supported himself on a
simple wooden crook, and clutched in his other hand a thick,
knotted rope, its other end looped loosely around the neck of a
small grey donkey.
Seated on the donkey’s back was a woman wrapped in a
threadbare shawl. Theresa could tell immediately that the woman
was with child, very close to her time. Her fingers were entwined
in the donkey’s tangled mane; her legs gripped the beast’s sides
with what seemed to be all her strength.
While Theresa had been observing her, the woman’s head had