Bethlehem

The bus rattled down the narrow road as I leaned my head on the seat in front of me and groaned. I was still recovering from severe dehydration, but I wasn’t about to miss our group’s visit to Bethlehem, the birthplace of Jesus. The little town of all those Christmas carols and the replicas of oil paintings on Christmas cards. The town of friendly animals and quiet streets. Serenity. Deep, dark blue. Peace. Beauty. Prayers and remembrance of the unrealistically quiet infant Jesus and his oddly clean mother. The perfect place under the brightest star.

Although we knew the inn was full, we boldly knocked on the door. Seeing my round belly, the innkeeper took pity on us and welcomed us into his home. There wasn’t much room for us, and so many bodies in one space made us all very hot. When my baby was born, he was colicky. The innkeeper let us use his donkey’s manger to lay my baby in. It smelled like animals and dust, rank in the heat. 

Using the railing for support, I managed to stumble off the bus. As my eyes adjusted to the direct sunlight, I was greeted with the sight of a large cement wall. Our tour guide explained that there were many refugee camps in the West Bank, like this one. If you asked the children who lived there where they were from, they would not say Bethlehem, even if they were born at this camp. They would answer with the name of the country that their parents had fled from.

We were grateful for the innkeeper’s hospitality, but when the angel visited my husband and told him the king wanted to kill my baby, we fled in the middle of the night without telling our host we were leaving or where we were going. The journey to Egypt was difficult. Between the heat and a screaming baby, I was on the brink of exhaustion the whole way there. We settled in Egypt, but we did not feel at home. I longed to return to Israel. Even after several months and displays of hospitality from some of the locals, I knew that I would never really belong in Egypt. When we heard that the king had ordered all the baby boys in Bethlehem killed, we were overcome with grief. Many families in Bethlehem tried to flee from the disaster, but for most, it was too late.

As we walked through Bethlehem toward the Church of the Nativity, many Arab merchants called out to us, trying to sell us their goods. They weren’t selling much food because it was Ramadan and most of the people living in Bethlehem were fasting. 

Another angel visited my husband and told him we could return safely home. I was greatly relieved. My husband was afraid that the late king’s son would have no more mercy on us than his father had, so we withdrew to a small town called Nazareth, hoping we would not be found. We made our home there, a small and simple town, now home to God himself.

After a long, uphill walk, we reached the church. It felt out of place. On the outside, it was yellow-brown stone like all of its surroundings, but on the inside it was an extravagant feat of architecture filled with beautiful, colorful mosaics and elaborate gold ornamentation. It was lovely, but it wasn’t Bethlehem. It was an attempted reconstruction of the Bethlehem I grew up with.

Although we were still afraid, we were so glad to be home. I vowed that if anyone had to flee from persecution and I could help, I would provide all the hospitality and protection that I could. Please, God, may the many homes that I have had always be open to those who need a home, whether in my time or beyond.

*I first wrote this reflection after studying abroad in Israel/Palestine in 2017.