A Christmas Eve Story: A Midwife Was Surely There
When you’ve been ushering babies into the world as long as I have, you get to feeling things deep in your bones.
As I began to settle in for the evening, I knew I wouldn’t be settled long. It took too many tries to snuff the candle. It took too much rustling to situate myself into the bed. Settling wouldn’t come and when that was the case, it was always because settling wasn’t meant.
Tonight I would be called out to a birth.
I thought through the mothers I had visited in the past few days. No. None of them were quite ready.
Either someone whose pains would come too early, or a stranger.
A stranger.
The census had brought plenty of them around, and it was entirely likely a woman far from home would need my help, far from her own mother and sisters and midwives. The census called us all to the lands of our husbands’ births. Who cared where husbands were born, anyway? Men, it seemed. How many women big with child had been forced to travel great distances just to be counted in this foolish empire reckoning?
Humph. I rustled around again, trying to get comfortable enough to rest my eyes for just a few, before the inevitable knocks came.
I had just drifted off when the shout and knock came. “Midwife! Midwife! You’re needed!”
The cry was from a kid, I didn’t recognize the voice right off. I jumped up from my pile of blankets quicker than most would expect a woman of my age to move, but a new life breaking into this world always energized me beyond reason.
“Ma’am!” the boy was a bit frantic, he sounded old enough that his voice was nearly ready to deepen, but the excitement and fear surrounding his errand held it at a high-pitch.
Quickly I unlatched my door. “Quit your hollerin’ now, I’m awake. Who’re you? Who sent you?”
“I work for the inn-keeper, he sent me, one of his guests is laboring. She’s making an awful ruckus. He wants you to come quiet her.” As he says these words, I recognize him. Pretty sure I assisted at his birth, but I won’t mention such now. These kids grow so quick, it’s hard to keep up with them.
I snort as I grab a shawl and my ever-ready birthing basket, tucked by the door.
“Well, I can’t quiet what’s meant to be loud, but I’ll come help her along. How long has she been having pains?”
“How do I know? I just know she’s been carrying on for a bit now.”
“How long’s a bit? An hour? Two? Ten?”
“An hour maybe. They’re bedded down in the manger, and at first we thought it was one of the donkeys or something. Inn-keeper was a mite worried, he can’t afford to lose any of them. He went to check and turns out it’s this hollering girl.”
We make our way through the darkened alleys. Full night now, but the stars are bright and guide us alongside the moon.
The brightness of the sky draws my gaze up and it seems that the brightest star I believe I’ve ever seen is resting atop the inn.
The boy sees it, too. “Do you think that’s an omen, sister?”
“Aye, may as well be, seems a good sort of omen if it is.”
He nods solemnly and leads me through the door and down a passageway, down a few steps, into the lower part of the home. A large enough home. The inn-keeper’s family was once large, but a combination of illnesses and marriages emptied out his rooms, and he has a pretty good trade of letting them out to folks traveling through. This census is good for businesses like his, I reckon.
The girls’ cries pierce my thoughts. My trained ears allow me relief at her cries - there was an ancient rhythm to them, and while her pain was intense, it sounded quite to be expected. Hopefully that bright star was her good omen.
“Sir, I’ve brought the midwife,” the boy announced my presence to the father of the soon-to-be child. I nodded briefly at him but turned my attention full on to the little mother. She stood, leaning against him, soaked in sweat, hands pressed into her low back. Her eyes were squeezed shut in a grimace, and a growl of pain coursed through her. And then, her eyes flew open and her breath caught in the fleeting peace between pains.
“Oh! Bless you for coming!” her deep brown eyes have a sheen of pain, but peace as well. Good. Every now and then these young ones get so wild-eyed and nearly impossible to calm.
“What’s your name, little mother?”
“I am Mary. This is Jo - “
Her hands have migrated to gripping his arms, which still support her as she stands. Her fingers claw in to the point that he grimaces, but I note that he doesn’t comment, doesn’t pull back, just lets her hold on to him. “Joseph, I am Joseph,” he says.
His gaze shifts to me, and I detect his fear. “I was afraid of this. I was afraid I’d be bringing her here, far from home, to deliver. I’m sorry - I am so sorry, Mary.”
“What for? What choice did we have? None,” her face tightens with pain and I stand before her, encouraging her to take deep breaths by showing her. I press my palms into her lower belly, feeling the struggle within her womb, that the baby wanted out and wanted in, all at once. But the struggle felt entirely natural, entirely on course for a healthy birth. “There now, a deep breath, and another. You’re doing well, aren’t you?” I murmur quietly.
“And so - here we are,” Mary finishes the thought the contraction interrupted. “Here we are and all will be well. All has been well so far, all will be well now.”
He nods mutely but still seems worried. All to be expected.
“Boy, bring me a bowl of clean water, and some clean cloths, quickly now. Bring them back and then leave out, quickly.”
The child who fetched me nodded and scurried off. “There now, you’re faring quite well my dear. Quite well. How long have you been having your pains?” I could guess the answer, but I want her to tell me, to confirm that things are proceeding as they should be.
“I couldn’t say. We’ve only just arrived, and at first I thought I just felt unwell from the journey! It took some time for me to realize ----” another contraction washes through her. Joseph fixes his worried gaze on me and I give him a gentle smile. All is well, here.
“Do you think the journey brought this on?”
I can’t stop the chuckle from bubbling out. “Son, it was no journey that brought this on!” His cheeks are flushed already from the heat of the little room, full of animals and now filled with the sweat and work of labor, but the glow of a blush rises at my comment. But come now! An old woman is allowed a bit of crassness, and a birthing is no place for modesty.
The inn-keeper’s boy returns.
“Anything else, sister?”
“Aye. Do you know Dorcas?”
“Yes, ma’am! She’s a friend of my sister.”
I figured as much. The girl has just begun her training with me, and as I am increasingly confident this birth will happen soon, I want her to be here for it.
“Bring her. Quick now!”
My mind returns to the young father’s question. “Little mother, let me have a good look at you now, let me see how far we’ve to go, alright? Is this about when you expected your time to come?”
I ask partially to check and partially to get them fixated on something besides the present pain, for just a few moments.
They exchange a glance in the glow of the lanterns the inn-keeper must have allowed to be gathered here. A type of glance I’ve seen more times than I can count - they wouldn’t be the first couple to have an awfully big baby who was “born too soon” but miraculously thrived. I sighed. Silly notions.
“This is exactly when I expected it,” her calm, strong voice cuts through. He nods at her. They tell their story back and forth in silence, gazing into each other’s eyes.
“Yes, yes. Alright then, here we are.” I crouch before her. “Little miss, I’m going to have to check a few things now. Just to make sure this here baby is going to be just fine, and you are too, sound ok to you?” The whole time, I am pressing into her bulging belly, gently at first, then with more strength.
“Oooof,” her sharp intake of breath has her Joseph sending me a sharp look.
“Ok now, I know it isn’t comfortable, but I am checking is all, checking where the baby is at, if she’s all set - “
“He.”
“Beg pardon?”
“You said the baby is ---- ughhhhh,” another pain interrupts her. I pause my pressing until it subsides. A shuffling behind me lets me know Dorcas has arrived. Without turning around I say: “Thank you boy, that will be all for now, make yourself comfortable just outside. Dorcas dear, come round now. This is Mary and Joseph and she’s telling me this one giving her all this trouble is to be a son.”
Dorcas has a lovely, gentle way about her. She has the wisdom beyond years that allows her into a room like this, at a time like this. She smiles a gentle smile, “How could you know, then? Maybe a boy, maybe a sweet girl?”
“A son. I have been promised a son,” she said, with surprising strength and peace.
“Well then, let’s see how much longer we have to await his arrival then, alright?” Oh, these young mothers and their strange convictions. I sent a silent prayer that she’s right about this son of hers, though my experience has taught me that once the baby is born, no mother cares about a thing but that it’s lusty cry if full of health.
I find that her body is nearly finished opening for the delivery. “Dorcas, what do you think?” Her eyes widen, she has only had the opportunity to check a mother’s progress a couple of times. I nod at her, and she crouches next to me.
“Oh! It’s time!” her excited whisper reaches Mary’s ears.
“Time, now?”
“Very nearly, dear. Papa, without her sisters here, we need you. Can you brace her?”
“Anything, yes, anything.”
“Aye then, let’s situate you. Sir, you press yourself against this wall and hold her up, no matter what all comes next, no matter if she smacks you away - “
“Ohhhhhh!” another cry from Mary.
“There now, let it pass, let it wash through you. You feel the rhythm of the pains don’t you dear? Big big, then a little less, then big again? Can you just picture them, like hills? Imagine something carrying you up and over each one. Bear down on the big pain and know it’ll let up if you keep with it.”
She gives a tiny nod, all of her focus and energy on the labor pains. “Look at me now, dear. Dorcas and I, and your Joseph, we’ve got you now. You can scream and holler and yell and do whatever to get over these hills of pain. We have got you and we’ll get this baby out of you in no time now, in no time now.”
I let my words wash a rhythm of their own and I keep her gaze steady on. Her deep brown eyes widen as a pain intensifies. “That’s right, now. That’s right. Up and over that hill, imagine ole Joseph here is just a-carrying you. Ride it out. Big pain, breathe deep, then ahhhhhhhh there it is, a little less now, deep, deep breath there dear. Well done.”
I hear Dorcas gasp and glance to see the crown of the baby emerging. “Alright now dear, here we are, you are ready. On the next big pain, bear down with everything within you and just push this baby right out!”
“Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” A long, loud cry emerges from the young girl as the head of her child emerges. I tend to think every baby looks to be an angel, but I feel my breath catch as this fresh life wrestles into the world, thinking this must be the face of God.
“That’s it, nearly there, give me another good push.” Another cry rips out of her and the baby tears through into the waiting, though slightly trembling, hands of Dorcas. The first baby she’s caught and I see that she’s completely taken with this calling, cradling the slippery infant instinctively, wiping the mess of birth from his mouth, nose and eyes. He squirms, thankfully, and whimpers, then the whimper turns into a blessed wail.
“Ohhhh! Oh Mary!” Joseph’s eyes are full of wonder as he stares at the little one in Dorcas’ arms.
“Mary, give me another push now, to get everything out, alright then,” she hasn’t even realized, in the wonder of the moment, that her body has continued to give waves of contractions, working to expel everything it no longer needs, everything the child no longer needs. The nurture that has held him safe and warm these past months is pushed out into the now messy straw. I make sure it looks complete. Satisfied, I wash her and work with Joseph to settle her into a fresh bed of straw and blankets. Dorcas has turned the baby over to his mother, and he is nuzzling around, ready for his first meal.
Dorcas and I clean up. I pile the afterbirth in an old blanket and tie it tight. “Papa,” I say, quietly, hating to break the spell their baby has cast on them, but needing the work to be complete. “This needs to be buried, ay? Now.”
He doesn’t question the urgency, but takes the blanket and finds a tool along the wall that will help with the digging.
Dorcas wonders, though, and I’m glad for her curiosity. Let her ask until she knows. “Why must it be done now, sister? Why not in the morning?”
“If you leave the burying for later, sometimes the baby will decide to go with it,” I say.
Superstition? Perhaps. But that’s what this work is - rules hewn from generations of patterns, wisdom passed sister to sister to sister, practices that have kept more babies and mothers safe than not. We do the best we can, and when things seem to work, we might as well let them.
Dorcas understands this, deep in her young bones, it’s why she’ll make good in this work. I am not much of one for praise, but I want her to know her gifts are seen and welcomed in this world. “You have the touch, girl, you have the way about you. I’m glad you came along.” I turn on my heel quickly, not wanting to linger over the compliment. That it’s spoken is enough, and her whispered thank you follows me out.
I know she’ll stay a bit with the young mother Mary, at least until Joseph returns from his task. The boy has fallen asleep on the stairs. I nudge him with my foot. “Come, now. It’s done. You can find a more comfortable spot to pass this night.”
His eyes fly open and he tilts his head curiously at the quiet. “Is she, are they?...” he looks a bit worried, kind lad, for these strangers bedding down among the inn’s animals. “All is well, all is peaceful now. Your inn-keeper will be glad.”
“Was awful loud there for a bit.”
“That’s the way of it, birthing. That’s how life begins, young man. Can’t do nothing about it and there’s nary a need to. What a woman goes through to bring forth life, this man’s world can afford her a shout or two.”
He nods solemnly, and I think this night, so out of the ordinary for him, might have opened his heart to this thought. Maybe he’ll remember it on a night in the future when he himself becomes a papa. Some future night, because these babies always seem to want to appear at night.
“Good night then, boy,” I walk out of the inn, unsurprised that the stars and moon still glow. It was a blessedly quick birth.
Their glow does not surprise me, but as soon as I tear my gaze from the strangely bright star that hovers still above the inn, I am quite shocked. I find myself gazing at an entire herd of shepherds.
“What on earth?”
“Peace! Peace on earth,” one whispers loudly. At least they have the sense to keep a bit quiet as Bethlehem slumbers.
“We were sent here, to this inn, by the angels in the sky. To see that baby born here tonight.”
“What? How did you know?”
“The angels have sent us. To see the baby boy. Our Savior. Our Messiah!”
Could it be? I think of the young girl. Sure she seemed to have a peaceful strength about her, but a lot of young mothers find that within. What choice do we have, really?
She was certain it would be a baby boy, said she’d been told.
And they had some precious secret, the young couple. But a lot of young couples do.
Would the Messiah show up in such an ordinary way?
“How did you know to come here?” I wonder aloud, hardly willing the question to sneak between my lips. I was tired and unsure if I really wanted to get caught up in a crowd of shepherds. But they had my attention, whether I wanted them to have it or not.
Collectively, their gazes traveled up to the same bright star the boy and I had noticed when he summoned me.
“We were told to follow the star,” a young girl, not quite as old as the young Mary inside, said.
Without realizing it, I’m nodding. Somehow, this answer makes sense, somewhere deep within, and a knowledge of this truth hums within my bones, the same kind of energy that told me why my candle wouldn’t snuff earlier this evening.
“Well, I don’t know about all that. But I will tell you this. Messiah or not, there’s a young mother in there who needs her sleep. You’ll do alright to come again tomorrow, won’t you? At a more normal hour to come calling? I’ll tell you this - there was a baby born here tonight. That much is so. Tomorrow, if his parents allow, you can inspect him for whether or not he’s your Messiah. But tonight, this new family needs their rest. You can understand that, yes? Wouldn't your angels let the Messiah’s mother sleep, do you think?”
There’s some shuffling and murmuring amongst them, and for a moment I think I’m going to have to rouse the inn-keeper to keep them from coming in. But then I realize they’re settling down to rest.
“This makes sense,” an older shepherd says. “We’ll wait, and rest, too. We will greet the baby with the morning.”
“That’s very good. Thank you,” I murmur.
What to do now, I wonder - could I possibly make my way back to my own home, and shut the door on this turn of events?
Surely I cannot. I turn, instead, and re-enter the inn. I close the gate behind me, though my sense is that the shepherds will not cross it until sunrise, and won’t let anyone else in either.
I may as well stay. I make my way back into the birthing room. I can rest on the straw as good as the rest of them, and then help the inn-keeper make a meal in the morning, as he will have a number of guests at table as long as he doesn’t turn his nose up at lowly shepherds. Well. He let this young couple into his barn. Hopefully he’ll let the shepherds have a bit of food, too.
Dorcas seems surprised that I have returned, but Mary is oblivious, simply staring at her baby boy. I come closer. “Little mother, may I?” I hold my arms out for the infant. “I trust Dorcas, but it will give me peace of mind to check him myself, you understand?” Mary is reluctant to let him go, but will not argue with me. I gather him to my bosom, and breathe in that newborn scent - raw, recent, sharp yet sweet.
He seems like all the others, really. Could this be the Messiah? Could this little one be the reason a star shines brighter than ever before, and a bunch of shepherds have posted themselves outside, claiming an angelic visit?
Well. Might as well be this one, I suppose. How could I know?
The noise of birth has ebbed into a peaceful slumber for all in the straw. Snuffles and animal snores surround us. The tiny, sweet breaths of the baby are audible. Joseph returns, and whispers excitedly about the shepherds gathered outside. He and Mary seem entirely unsurprised at their story of angels and a star and a Messiah. The murmur of their conversation, and Dorcas piping in with questions, fills the backdrop of peaceful sounds. Birds coo in the rafters. Somewhere, upstairs in the inn, deep and loud snores carry. Probably the old inn-keeper, I think wryly. The sound of footsteps as someone wanders about in the night, perhaps sensing something unsettled, like I did just a few short hours ago.
These sounds settle around like dust. “Is he alright?” Mary’s voice cuts through my reverie.
“Oh, absolute perfection,” I slowly pass the baby into her waiting arms, immediately feeling his absence.
“We must thank you, and you - “ Joseph suddenly realizes our services ought not be free. He worriedly glances toward a pack of their belongings, and I recognize that, given his lodging, there won’t be much there.
“No, we’re most pleased to assist in bringing this baby into the world,” I say quietly. I glance at Dorcas to silence any possible objections, but I needn't have worried. She catches my eye and nods her assent. “It is our honor,” she smiles.
“Oh, we cannot accept --- ” the young father is unsure how to proceed, needing the gift but struggling to receive it.
“Perhaps we shall discuss it in the morning then?” I say, telling a lie we all recognize as such. He nods, gratefully.
“It seems that though you are far from your sisters, you will have many visitors in the morning. Dorcas and I will stay, and help.” I say firmly. They nod again, and I see now that the inevitable exhaustion of labor has caught up to this strong, young mother. “Perhaps Joseph will hold the baby a bit, while you rest your eyes,” I encourage softly, and she smiles as her eyes close, as her husband gathers the infant to his chest. Wonder fills his gaze.
Dorcas and I arrange ourselves and allow sleep to take us as well. I am aware once again of every sweet sound of the miracles of life - of new life, and of persistent life in an empire that would reduce each of us to numbers. The powerful think only of money, only of their own fortunes, it seems. But here we are, huddled against the night in a strange shelter, breathing in the miracle of birth, remembering the terrible song of the mother’s cries, and that memory is suddenly shattered as the baby wails for his mother’s breast. As thought it’s not her first night, she responds immediately, and her husband props her up so she can feed their hungry child. The sound of his nursing replaces the sound of his hungry cries, and as I drift back into sleep, I catch the sweet sound of her lullaby washing over us all.
(the image is public domain, La Nativite by Guido of Siena, 13th century)
