They summoned me, and so I rushed into the night,
my bag a-swinging from my hand. The city full
of census-driven travelers was mostly quiet, save
a corner of the stable of an inn, which groaned.

I knew these groans.

I swept the useless man aside, sent him for cloths
as if I hadn’t brought some with me, but what need
for men when birth is near? A glance alone told me
this girl had never birthed. “Be easy, child,” I sighed.

I knew this fear.

The man brought cloths, they fluttered down upon
the straw. “Stand there,” I ordered him, “and keep them out.”
The sounds had drawn the usual assortment of
the curious and well-meant helpers without skill.

I knew this crowd.

The hours wore away as the body of the woman did
its work, made straight a highway for the child
from womb to world, one built with heavy labor.
The gasps turned to deep growls as we neared the end.

I knew these growls.

The woman shrieked; the man choked on a sob.
The mothers in the crowd of curious made sounds
of sympathy, then held their breath to hear
the new-made mother’s gasping breaths and child’s cry.

I know those sounds, and I rejoice.

I lingered as the onlookers dispersed, to see
the squalling son find comfort in his mother’s arms.
Before I laid him there, his eyes looked into mine,
and shocked, I gasped, for they had pierced my soul.

I had not known that look.

I made my way on home, my lightened bag
a-swinging from my hand, and my heart
was lighter, too. “And is it you, Emmanuel?”
I asked. “Has God come down to Earth to us?”

I had not known such things before, but now:
I know.

A poem/prayer for Christmas Eve 2024.

The image is The Nativity of Jesus, by an anonymous Roman artist (13th century). Photo by Thomon – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=82589118.