My name is Joseph. I am a carpenter. I guess I am an old man, or at least I look that way next to my wife, Mary. I am 29. I think I might be crazy. Certainly everyone is telling me I must be.
Life in Nazareth is hard. It’s a stony little city a little ways inland from the Sea of Galilee. Not much happens there; it’s hot in the summer, and cold in the winter, and almost all of us are poor.
Mary was the best thing that ever happened to me. She is beautiful, and gentle and kind. Most of us don’t marry for love, but I did. I fell for her, and asked her father’s permission to marry her. He was glad to give it; I am a good carpenter, and I can care for her and the children we will one day have.
No sooner had we gotten married — that is, made the promises that will culminate in our marriage after a year or so — than Mary took it into her head to travel all the way up to a town near Jerusalem to visit her cousin. I’m all for family, but it just isn’t done for a young girl to go dancing off that way. It made me uneasy, and I was right.
When she came home she wasn’t alone: everyone could see that there was a baby inside her. I was humiliated, and heartbroken, both for me and for her. What sort of life could she look forward to, the unmarried mother of who knows who’s child? I didn’t want to make it any harder for her, so I decided to break it off with her quietly. That was where the craziness began.
Normal people don’t see angels. But I did, in my dream, telling me that Mary had not betrayed me, that her child was God’s child, and I should stay with her.
I’m not exactly sure what that means, that the child is God’s child. I’m not always sure I believe it. Sometimes I do. One thing I was sure of: I could no longer imagine sending Mary away. She had told the same story, and what if it were true?
The funny thing is this: I am happier than I have ever been. Even now, even as we make this stupid trip to Bethlehem for the census, my heart is light. Explain that, if you can. Everyone in Nazareth thinks she’s a — well, you know what they’re thinking. And they think I’m an idiot. It doesn’t matter, because when I look back at Mary on her donkey, I know that this is right.
Here’s another funny thing. Bethlehem is just ahead, and the sun set two hours ago. Yet I can still look back and see her face, because the stars tonight are shining like I’ve never seen them.
While you’re at it, explain that, too.
THE REV. MICHAEL AMBLER is rector of Grace Episcopal Church in Bath.
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