I lay in the straw, overwhelmed, afraid, peaceful.
In my arms lies the Child I have been waiting for.
The Child the entire world has been waiting for.
He could have chosen anyone.
He chose me.
Insignificant little me.
As I shift my position to get more comfy against the stone floor,
I can see a star through the window.
That is, one specific star.
There are lots of stars up there, but one shines brighter than the rest.
Like this Child, I suppose, among the prophets.
He stirs as I stir, and I wonder why He would chose to put Himself under the direction of my heart and mind.
But deep inside, I already know the answer.
I wonder if I trust myself to love Him too deeply.
Will I be brave enough to give Him up when the time comes?
I have delivered Him into this world, but He is yet to deliver me.
I have sustained Him and given Him life.
In time - when His time comes - He will do likewise for me.
To think I hold the Chosen One - the Saviour - in my arms!
And look at His bedroom!
I had always assumed that the birth of the Messiah would be sort of special somehow.
It was dirty.
It was smelly.
It was so painful.
My body aches yet from the exertion.
But when I look down at His little face - the face of my powerful awesome God -
My heart melts, and, holing Him closer, I close my eyes to sleep.