He Looks Just Like His Father

The contractions gripped Mary. She had seen babies born, heard the wailing of the mothers. But she never imagined she would be the one making the deep, guttural noises. Not this way. No midwife. No mother or sister to guide her. She was terrified. And, her fiancé there seeing her like this. He had seen no more of her than her face, hands and feet. Along with the agony of birth, she ached from embarrassment. 

With each painful wave, the angels grabbed one another by the arm. They stamped their feet, waiting for it to pass. When it did, they exhaled and looked up at the throne to see The King doing the same thing. The Creator was beside Himself, wringing His omnipotent hands. He knew all, but He had never been born. Even if He had chosen to go through the experience, it wasn’t Him going through it now. It was something far more precious. It was His Son, a piece of Him and all of Him. 

The Spirit reached out and touched the King’s shoulder. It wouldn’t be long now. Yes, God nodded, no much longer. Yet so long. He wanted so badly to stop the pain and the relentless contractions gripping His Boy like a great fist. If He struggled to restrain Himself now, how would He be able to withstand the end? He would simply have to turn away. It would be too much. 

A final push and the Prince of Peace was born into the cold world of mortality. Heaven shook with cheers. The hosts lined up to hug the proud Abba and the enraptured Spirit. And then, silence, wonder, complete awe as the Prince looked up at them through unseen realms. “Oh, look at those curls,” the angels marveled. “Hello little Messiah. You are a jewel.” “Look at those fat cheeks.” “He looks just like His Father.” “Quiet everyone, He needs to sleep.”

A tear glossed God’s cheek. Was He so proud, so relieved, so blissfully in love with His precious Baby that all He could do was smile and cry. He wanted to reach out, to put His hand on Joseph’s shoulder. The man was so scared, so afraid he hadn’t done enough. He had apologized to God for the stable. Mary deserved better. The little Miracle deserved the best.

The messenger angels stood at the door bouncing foot to foot, shaking their hands, ready to burst forth from heaven like holy fire. They had been practicing, they were ready. But most of all, they were excited to be just a little closer to Him. They had missed Him so.

That night, as Mary slept, Joseph stared in wonder at his boy. A boy! His first born was a boy. A son! But, no. Could he even call Jesus, son? Was that allowed? What did YWHW want? I want you, Joseph. I trust you. 

Jesus stirred. Joseph carefully picked Him up and laid the Savior of mankind against his human shoulder. He smelled the Baby’s silky hair and smiled. He’s yours to raise Joseph. Love him as your own. It’s ok. I want it this way. Joseph smiled. The little One did feel like his own and he would raise Him as if He were. Oh, the things he would teach Him. They would build things together, play games, hunt, fish. And one day, Jesus would make him a grandpa. The house would run wild with little ones. 

That’s how it would happen, right? That’s how life was supposed to go. Joseph walked back and forth, bouncing the baby. Yes, men had children, grew old and died peacefully, surrounded by their grandchildren and great grandchildren. Of course, life hadn’t gone as it was supposed to go thus far. Since that precious little Miracle had entered their lives, nothing had gone right. Here they were in a cave, more or less, surrounded by animals. What kind of father was he letting it happen this way? He apologized to the LORD again.

A knock at the entrance. Shepherds stood quietly, still a little pale and shocked from the  celestial chorus. They had been told they would find exactly what they found. Why them, they had wondered as they made their way to the stable. The dregs of society: bug bites on their ankles, the smell of filth and the weariness of work on their clothes and skin. Why had they been chosen for this? They looked at the baby then one another. Their souls leaped in their chests and they stood dumbstruck, lowly shepherds in the presence of the greatest Shepherd. 

Time passed quickly. Mary grew heavy with another child. She and Joseph knew Jesus was the Son of God. But, did they? He didn’t seem divine. To them, He was their just little man, toddling everywhere, grabbing everything. “Jesus, no, no! Joseph, grab that nail from Him.” “Oh, come now Mary. Just a nail. We are carpenters, strong men. Show mommy Your muscle, Jesus. Yes, there it is. Growl for her. Grrrr. He’s a Samson, He is. A little nail in the hand couldn’t hurt You, could it? No, never.”

The Magi arrived at the door and the reality of Who was pulling at their robes came back to Joseph and Mary. Such strange gifts for a baby: gold, frankincense, myrrh. A gift for a king, an anointment for a sacrifice and a spice to embalm a corpse. The proud parents gave each other side-ways looks and smiled. Perhaps that was the custom from the Magi’s distant lands. Surely it didn’t mean something. Did it?

Children filled the house. The Son of Man became a big brother. His beloved father Joseph died. “Father, let me save Him.” “No, Son. He’s here with me and happy to stay.” 

The time came. Jesus began teaching. His family was shamed, embarrassed. He was the talk of gatherings. Mary stayed quiet. She had always stayed quiet. If she kept much more in her heart, it would explode. James understood. Finally. Or, at least he tried. It was a lot to take in. His big Brother was his Heavenly Father. The prophesied Messiah. Why had it taken him so long to see it? He and his mother exchanged looks as the aunts, uncles, distant kin and the whole of the city gossiped about the One they loved, lived with and were now living for.

And then, the trial. How had this happened? What had gone wrong? Mary wretched bile, her body devouring its own self with grief. Her baby. So fat, so happy. What had she done wrong? What could she do? Could she climb the cross, pull out the nails and take them herself? “Please. Please, YWHW, let me die instead. Not my baby boy.”

God turned away. He knew He would have to. It would be too much. The angels were beside themselves. “Great King, send us! We’ll kill them all! Our swords are ready! Please, King, Our Savior is screaming!” The earth shook with rage. 

The Spirit held up His hand. The earth stilled. Heaven was silent. Except for the laughter of one. The one who thought he had won. 

Christ returned home. The angels rushed to Him, to comfort Him, feed Him, tend to Him. He thanked them but refused. He only wanted to see His Abba. And there He was, The Holy One, The Creator, His Abba, His Daddy, running from the throne to hug His Boy. His Son. The missing piece of His heart.

And then, the third day. Once again, the Savior found Himself in a cave, in the dark, born into the cold world of mortality. But this time, He would walk out on His own. Not only as a man, but a Lion. Death devoured. The laughter silenced as heaven shook with cheers. The hosts lined up to hug His proud Abba and the enraptured Spirit. And then, silence, wonder, complete awe as the Prince looked up at them through unseen realms. “Oh, look at Him,” the angels marveled. “He looks just like His Father.”