A Night to Remember

(From Luke 2)

I’ve been living here for as long as I can remember. It’s a pretty peaceful place, where everyone gets along, at least most of the time. I’m content with it, and even though this place is quite simple, even primitive, you might say, I’ve no aspirations to go elsewhere.

Perhaps it’s actually the lack of excitement that keeps me so contented. I don’t like excitement, never have. Excitement disrupts my digestion, you see, and my digestion is all important, not only to me, but also to others. If my digestion gets interrupted, I simply can’t produce.

But what happened on “that night” affected not only me, but also everyone else. 

It was a cold night, as I remember, and we were all bedding down as usual, curling up for warmth in our normal resting places. It was cold enough that, looking around, I could see the breath of each one of us, like steam, punctuated by the occasional after-dinner belch. These familiar sounds and smells in the cold night air mingled in a way that was actually quite comforting. In fact, the nightly noises and smells were so routine that we could literally take roll from them, assuring ourselves, as each one sounded off, that all were present and accounted for.

But this was a night unlike any other. It began with the unexpected: two strangers appeared out of the darkening night, a young couple, husband and wife. Who were they? Why were they here? Surely, some mistake. But it soon became apparent that they intended to stay. They were unpacking their things. Stay here? With us? The commotion roused us and we all struggled back to our feet, standing stiffly at attention, wondering what was happening. All eyes were on these intruders, this bedraggled young couple.

And believe me, they were truly bedraggled. The two must have come a great distance. They looked tired. And hungry. They had little more than the clothes on their backs. And then worst of all: a donkey. A donkey! I don’t like donkeys. Donkeys are the most stubborn, disagreeable animals I can think of. If you say yes, the donkey says no. If you say black, the donkey says white. If you say go, the donkey stops. Disagreeable!

But it soon became clear to me that not only was this young couple intending to stay, but their donkey was staying too! Not in my place, not here! I’m not giving up my bed for any donkey! Not me!

As the man unloaded their meager belongings, the woman (who was little more than a girl) looked for a place where she could get off her feet and rest. That’s when I noticed: she was with child and soon to deliver. Discomfort was written all over her face. His face, even in the dark of the gathering night, showed weariness and a deep worry.

Nativity

Botticelli 1473-1475

No words were spoken as in silence, they began to settle in. The donkey, standing just outside the enclosure, began to move toward us, attempting to cross the threshold and into our sheltered space. Though several of us moved to block his path, we were unsuccessful as he squeezed past us. He was in. Oh, boy!

Surely this young couple could find more suitable accommodations elsewhere (anywhere!). Surely someone would come and rescue them. Surely this was not what they had in mind. And sharing my space with them (and their donkey) was definitely not what I had in mind!

What’s worse, her labor was beginning. Slowly at first, but later, it would come much faster, stronger. Much, much stronger. I know. I’ve delivered quite a few babies of my own. I’m a mother too!

For a time, I watched her struggle with the contractions. And struggle she did! But to my great surprise, my mother’s heart suddenly went out to her. After all, she was just a girl, innocent and scared. I wasn’t intending to help her, but then all at once, I was. Yes, they were intruders, but that was all forgotten in the pathos of the moment. This was clearly her first, and she was not sure what to expect. She was frightened. Still not speaking, she whimpered a bit. He, feeling helpless, was not sure what to do. This, clearly, was also his first.

But I knew what to do. I knew. She was dry. She needed sustenance, not only for herself, but for the unborn child. Fortunately, nature has equipped me for just such a time as this. Inside my body was perhaps the best source of sustenance for both her and also for her baby. But how to show the man? How to teach him what to do in this hour of crisis? I needed his help.

I moved toward her. The sheep stepped aside, clearing my path. They knew what I was doing. But the man, fearing for her, moved to protect her, blocking my path.  The stupid donkey, thinking this was a reception party for him, started to move to the space vacated by the sheep. I was blocked, both by the man and also by the foolish donkey.

Then the first of what would be several miracles: Flip, our local dog, suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Flip is a sheepdog, retired after many years in the fields. His eyesight is gone, and he doesn’t move fast enough anymore to chase after errant sheep. But Flip has a nose for trouble and a sixth sense which he developed from years on the local hillsides. He knew, without seeing, that something was up. And unafraid of nearly anything, including an unwelcome donkey, Flip came to the rescue.

Seeing the intruders, he fixed on the donkey and barked and nipped and ran around in such a threatening way that the poor beast, intimidated, began to retreat, moving to a dark corner out of the way and opening my path to the young mother-to-be.

For what seemed a long time, I simply stood beside the girl. The man, still not knowing what to do, slowly became more comfortable with my presence. However, I could tell that he was still in the dark. He clearly was no farmer!

Her contractions increased and she cried out for a drink. That’s when the man finally realized what I was offering. Scrambling, he found a bucket and moved to my source of supply. I shuddered a bit at his rough, clumsy hands but told myself that this was too important to back away now. I would patiently endure his fumbling.

He worked slowly, unsure of himself. But little by little, the bucket filled. Once he decided there was enough, he gently brought the bucket to her. I could have produced more, a lot more, I proudly thought, but I had to admit that I was totally dependent on his assistance.

She could do no more than to cup her hands and scoop out some of the warm, fresh milk. I could see a feeling of relief cross her face. That is, until the next contraction. Once it subsided, she took another drink and for the next half hour, she alternated, contractions ever harder, and drinks ever smaller. Only after she was satisfied did the man allow himself to drink. Like her, he was worn out and like her, frightened. But the milk did seem to calm both of them, at least for the moment.

By now, most of us understood that this was going to be a long night. Our landlord came out, holding an oil lamp. He set it down just outside the enclosure, fearing that inside, it might ignite the hay. As a result, the welcome but somewhat distant light cast long shadows on every figure inside. Having set it down, he left with no further offer of help to the young couple.

Flip remained, keeping the trespassing donkey in check. From time to time, the donkey made a start toward the center of the space. But Flip, ever vigilant, sensed his every move, almost before he made it. Blind Flip, we thank you! How he could do this, we’ll never know!

The hours marched on, contractions ever closer and ever harder. Surely, this girl had a family somewhere, a mother and possibly sisters who could help her through this ordeal. But they were nowhere near, and her whimpers became cries for them as the intensity of the contractions increased. Though her husband’s efforts to quiet her were helping, her feelings of aloneness could not be damped out. There would be no help tonight.

The man tried to get her as comfortable as possible. But a mattress of hay is no substitute for a real bed, and a crude shelter for animals no replacement for a home. Now that he had learned how I could help, he moved again to produce more milk, keeping it for later. I freely cooperated. He would need it!

It was now quite late. Looking out, I could see a multitude of stars in the clear, cold night. Curiously, the sky looked somehow different, stars somewhat brighter than normal. And there was movement. Movement among the stars? The stars were actually moving? How could that be? I’d never before seen anything like it. After viewing literally thousands of night skies, I thought to myself, “This night is a different night; perhaps a special night?”

The feeling of anticipation was building, just as the girl’s cries intensified. All of us, witnesses-to-be, were standing still, silently watching and waiting. No one dared to move. Except of course, the donkey, who hadn’t yet given up trying to escape the guard of Flip! But his every move was checkmated by the wily canine.

Those of us who live here are comfortable residing in a place where births are common. They occur every day and are given little notice when they do. However, this was different. It was strange, but we all had the feeling that something special was about to happen. Really special. And not one of us had any idea why, or what was making it so special.

And then it was time. Time for the birth, time for the baby to enter this world. This world of pain and suffering, defeat and shame. This world that seemed to offer no promise to a baby born in a stable, a baby born to a teenaged girl far from home, in the dark, in the night, surrounded not by supportive family but instead, surrounded by animals.

She could hold back no longer and with a loud cry, she began to push. The man, feeling more helpless than ever, could do nothing more than hold her hand. 

He came quickly. Yes, the baby was a he, a boy. A beautiful boy, looking healthy and in a strange way, at peace. His eyes searched his surroundings as the man cleaned him off with what appeared to be nothing more than a rag. Holding the baby up for the girl to see, the man smiled for the first time. And at the baby’s first cry, she smiled too. But weakly.

The man offered her the recently-produced milk and she eagerly drank it, offering her breast to the baby as she did. I wanted to tell him that I could produce even more if needed, but by now, he seemed to get the idea.

I suppose at this point, we might all have gone on to sleep. The event of the birth was over. We’d waited all night for it and now it was over. No more excitement. Or so we thought! But we didn’t go to sleep. We stayed on our vigil, watching for God-knows-what.

Our intruders, once two but now three, were quiet. After his first meal, the baby had fallen asleep. And so had his mother. Father, still keyed up by the whole experience, simply sat by her straw bed. He seemed to be wondering what it all meant, almost in a daze.

I was ready to produce more milk, if needed. My supply isn’t endless, but it was enough for tonight. It felt good to be a part of this baby’s birth. All thoughts of the couple as “intruders” were long forgotten. The sheep, normally a bit high-strung, were unusually peaceful. And the donkey was still held at bay by Flip.

After a while, the man quietly took the baby from his sleeping mother’s arms and gently laid him in the manger, which was filled with hay. My manger, actually. And my hay, I should point out. I might have been upset by his act of usurping my meal trough. But the baby, now loosely wrapped in some strips of cloth, looked so sweet that I just couldn’t be angry. I would not break the peace of the stable.

But the peace was broken nonetheless. We had visitors. Shepherds, fresh from the adjacent fields. I could smell them before they actually appeared. Nothing, nothing on earth smells worse than a shepherd, fresh from the field. I don’t know what they do to smell that way, but it’s a wonder that anyone will live with them. And it’s no surprise that the sheep are regularly trying to get away to escape their pungent odor.

There were three of them. Stumbling in the dark toward the light outside the stable, they spoke in excited bursts.   

“I still can’t believe it!” One exclaimed, and the others chimed in with excited agreement. Entering the stable, they quickly awakened the sleeping mother, bringing the father back out of his stupor.

“We’re here to see the baby, the new king,” one announced to the now awakened stable.

Fearing some altercation, the father moved between them and the sleeping baby. The young mother, rubbing her swollen eyes, could do no more than look at them in wonder. 

“What? What new king? Who are you and what are you doing here?” the father asked, just as I was wondering the very same thing. “Leave us alone.”

“No, we mean you no harm,” replied the first shepherd. “But we just came from an incredible display of stars out in the field. Nothing like we’ve ever seen. The stars were actually moving! Moving! And on top of that, they sang! Yes, the stars sang to us! Beautiful songs! There was a whole multitude of them! More than we could count!”

“And then,” continued the second, “they told us to come here. To come here to celebrate the birth of a new king, the king of Israel. The stars spoke to us and they told us to come here!”

“And so we have,” responded the third shepherd. “We’re here to see the king and see, here he is, this new baby. He is the king, a new king, a king for all people. How do we know that? We know because the stars told us. The stars! Yes, the stars told us to come here and worship the new king.”

“Can we stay?” asked the first shepherd. “Please, can we stay?”

“No!” answered the father. “Can’t you see that his mother is exhausted?”

I certainly agreed. She needed rest. And the baby certainly didn’t need to catch the fleas carried by the shepherds. The sooner we got those shepherds away, the better. Even better if they took Mr. Donkey with them!

I guess my maternal instincts were kicking in. 

“Please,” begged the shepherds.  “Please. Just for a bit.”

“Well, alright,” replied the father, “but just for a little, very little bit.”

“Wonderful!” the three exclaimed and they promptly planted themselves on the dirt floor and did nothing more than watch the baby sleep.

After a few minutes, the baby stirred and began to cry. I knew it was time for another meal, and I hoped the father figured this out as well.

He did. And he quickly ushered the shepherds out. Unfortunately, they did not take the donkey with them.

But they did leave us with great words of praise and thanksgiving. Praise for this new king, born in a stable, and thanksgiving that they, humble shepherds, had been witnesses to something great and memorable.

Perhaps they had no idea just how great and just how memorable it truly was. And to be honest, neither did I. Yes, I knew this baby was special. Very special. Despite the crude circumstances of his birth, I knew that his destiny was for greatness. 

But I must admit that this baby, who was named Jesus, went beyond my expectations. Even beyond my hopes and dreams. I had thought this baby was special. But he was more than special. The shepherds thought he was a king. But he was more than a king. He was the king of kings, the prince of peace, the savior of the world.

And I, in my life, had never been prouder. To help these two strangers, to provide the sustenance for a scared young mother, to help a young father provide for his wife and son, these were things I have remembered and treasured ever since. To be a part of the birth of our Lord, Jesus Christ, that’s something really special.

You may ask how I, a simple cow, know all of these things. Wasn’t I just part of a story, a bit player in the script of God’s plan? And nothing more than a prop in the unfolding of his plan? Wasn’t I just a dumb animal, used by God and then forgotten? After all, Jesus came for people, and only people, didn’t he?

No. You may not know it, but Jesus is Lord of all creation. Nothing that was created, was created without him. He is Lord of people, yes, but also Lord of the plants, the rocks, the trees and the animals.

Even donkeys.

Copyright 2020 Robert Westheimer all rights reserved