How, just a few days before Christ’s birth, she must have been feeling stretched and sore, not only from being so heavy with child, but from her time of distant travels.
How I might have felt, in her place, after such a journey.
How, in my humanity and utter imperfectness, I would have felt when my husband could not find an inn with room for us.
No room? In any inn? Can they not see that I am in desperate need of a warm room, midwife assistance, a soothing hot drink? My child is coming. How could you not make room for me? For my little one? Sir, what about you, would you give us your room, if even for one night?
My flesh cringes. I’m ashamed. Any ounce of righteousness I think I have is truly… filthy rags. They cling to me, and I want to rip them off.
Oh, who am I to think I would deserve such things, such luxuries, such compassion?
And yet sometimes we go about life that way.
…Read the rest of this post from last year here.
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