No, I just don’t see anything like King David in this motel, said the pacing young man. He was into hitting with his fists the walls of the place as he made his rounds, as if he wanted to see if the foundations of the building could stand up to him. 

This is why you never want to be a tourist, the young man went on.  Something inside of him was trying to get out of there immediately.  It was really the boy inside of him, just like the boy he had once been himself.  The little man had hijacked the big arms, making them swing over the large bearded head, and shake a fist toward the ceiling. 

All right, his wife said.  It will be all right.  Sit down.  Get some rest after all this. 

The young man stopped pacing but he couldn’t make himself sit.  He instead faced the wall and talked to it as if the construction material could benefit from a good lecture. 

We live in a world where people are afraid of everything, he told the wall. So the first victim of wall-to-wall fear is the truth, which will always makes my fears even worse, not better.  And now I can’t even buy a simple guide to Bethlehem without the guide completing betraying me now that I am a hundred miles from its seller. 

He was getting no response from the wall, so he looked at the ceiling to make his final point. 

They should be put in prison anyone for selling any guide that claims that Bethlehem is still filled with wonderful people, he told the ceiling.  All I see in Bethlehem is selfish pigs who have stolen the clothes of people. 

His young wife watched him from an absolutely relaxed prone position, covered in assorted blankets, her eyes rolling to any new spot that where he stopped. 

With the toll of all the centuries after David, she told him, you might expect a little erosion of his influence. 

A little erosion of David’s influence would be welcome compared to this, the young husband went on, still looking at the ceiling, as did the entire culture of his people when they were looking for something as they spoke.  There is a great deal of erosion. 

But your good words, said the wife, will bid the poetry of David to come out, surely 

I can’t come up with good words now, said the young man, when my thoughts are not at all so good.  Oh, that flying eagle we saw just when we came here, carrying her little baby in her beak, was the only good thought I have gotten from this place.  Other than that, zippo. 

Talk to me what sort of story that mother eagle was telling you, said the young wife. 

He stood still for a moment as he changed into better words for her. 

The mother eagle wanted to show the world to her child, the young man said.  So she was setting off to show him the whole world from its heights, in her own care, before the devil could do it.  The first thing she showed him was the miraculous mustard tree, so large, and yet it sprung from the smallest seed of them all.  The mother eagle is teaching her young son how powerful is even the smallest seed of faith. 

Then the mother eagle showed her son the beautiful fields of lilies from the clear sky, how these lilies are dressed better than the most powerful kings of the orient in their gold, and how they refresh better than the most rare myrrh  or frankincense. But these lilies have no gold at all, no myrrh and no frankincense, but they had a clear reception to their heavenly father.  That’s what the mother eagle is telling her son as she teaches him to be a teacher of the world. 

Promise me you will tell that story someday to our son, Joseph. 

I will, in due time. 

There was a knock on the door that in its foreignness changed everything. It made the young man stop talking and it brought his eyes back to his wife. 

Maybe it’s someone who feels sorry for us and who’ll take us out of here, he told her as he went to the cold door. 

He had to place his feet carefully on the straw, as he was seldom inside the environment of farming.  He felt only half good as he arrived at the entrance, as his right foot was fine, but his left foot had stepped in a mess. 

Hello sir, said the man waiting at the entrance. He was dressed like a sheep farmer, with his legs wrapped freely so he could walk quickly.  He had said his two words as if it were all he needed to say.  Everything else was said by a sky light that had lit up the entire night. 

What’s all this light here? 

That’s what I wanted to ask you, said the farmer.  I just followed it to this spot.  Look at it.  Look at that big star standing right over you. 

They stepped out toward the night gingerly, as if the star had a supervisor’s power over them.  Other people were arriving into the area, many of them carrying staffs, everybody walking quickly.  

Mary!  Mary, called out the young man who was only visiting Bethlehem, and who now was beginning to understand something about its ancient powers. 

He practically jumped into the stable where he and Mary had gotten stuck for the night and then came back out transformed into the third part of an angel, his young wife the second part and his baby boy the last but greatest part.  The three parts were moving slowly, stopping a second then moving ahead again.  The three-sided angel was held together by all three members of the young family sides clutching to each other fiercely. 

It’s so bright, the young wife said, but not because she felt threatened by the huge star hanging over her.  She felt supported by it, as if it were a festive fire light for a birthday party. 

Several people were arriving at the lit-up spot now.  It was as if the brightness of the sky were creating a community meeting. 

This would never happen in any other city, one woman in the crowd said.  That’s because other cities have sold out to the untruthful knowledge of mankind, while we in little old Bethlehem still hold on to our original miracles, said a proud old man. 

This is so much fun.  Isn’t it, Jesus? said the mother to her baby son.  She held him up to the brightness of the star, so the light became part of his face. 

Chris Sharp

Commentary via fiction 
 

Chris Sharp is an Educator and a prize-winning professional writer. His commentaries represent his own opinions and not necessarily the views of any organization he may be affiliated with or those of the West Ranch Beacon.