Song for the Watchers

When I was young, Papa told me not to love the flocks. “They don’t belong to us,” he said. I remember we were in the field with the other men. Papa had an arm around the abdomen of a male. With his free hand he gave the animal’s head a calming pat while next to him another shepherd used a freshly sharpened blade to trim its wool. It was late spring, shearing season. My first season in the fields with Papa. I was still a boy, then, learning my father’s way. The task he gave me was gathering the clumps of wool and stuffing each into a sackcloth purse. These shorn winter coats would be turned over to the overseers; they would soon become blankets or cloaks to warm the wealthy.

“You give them names,” Papa went on. “You mustn’t do that. They are not yours to name. They are not for us. They are meant for others.”

“What am I to call them then?”

Papa squinted against the afternoon sun, beholding me. I imagine he was trying to picture me older, stronger, accomplished in this trade (if you can even call it a trade). What to say to me in that moment? These were formative years, and for Papa everything was a lesson. I was his only son, after all. Who else did he have to teach such things?

“If you must call them by name, this one is kaphar.” He gave the animal’s head another attentive pat. It snorted softly, bearing the shepherds’ grasp, uncomfortable but unafraid. The knife finished its work, and Papa released the male, giving it a gentle shove back toward the grazing flock.

Kaphar, covering. Reminding me the flock was meant for the Temple, for atonement. These were beasts of sacrifice, not domesticity. Papa pointed to several others around us. “That one is kaphar, that one is kaphar, that one is kaphar…”

“I get it,” I replied, gesturing to another. “That one’s kaphar, too.”

“No.” Papa shook his head. “That one is shalom. And so is that one, and, let’s see… that one.” He nodded in the direction of several other members of the flock.

“Why shalom?” 

“Because,” my father said. “They’re female.”

I should have known. A boy, yes, but I was old enough to have learned this distinction, that the males were for burnt offerings – kaphar, for sin – and the females were for peaceful offerings – shalom.

“These are no common beasts,” Papa continued. “They are the most precious animals in all the world. More valuable than all the animals in a king’s stables. Greater than the greatest ofs Roman war horses. These flocks belong to HaShem. It is our duty to care for them. Protect them. And never, ever leave them. Do you understand?”

Looking up from the animals, I met his eyes and nodded. He turned his attention back to the sheep, reached out and took reverent hold of another unshorn. I went back to gathering tufts of wool.  

We abide in the fields. It is far too much trouble to bring in the flocks every night, nor is any village pen trustworthy. The flocks we tend are substantial, and valuable. There are few pens anyway; most folks in Bethany, Ein Karem, Bethphage, and the other towns that lie in the shadow of the Holy City tether their family goat or ox inside their houses at night. Besides, the Law commands animals intended for sacrifice must dwell outside for a full year, even the rainy months. So, our time is spent in the fields around Migdal Eder, the ancient watchtower that marks the Temple pastures. To the south is Bethlehem. To the north, the Mount. We usually avoid both. We’re shepherds, after all.

Throughout my many years of tending, I’ve learned to accept our reputation as outcasts, even if I don’t necessarily understand it. The priests don’t care for us – to them we’re an unfortunate necessity. The rabbis and the lawyers overlook us, seeing in our tattered and smelly garments only a dishonorable, uneducated lot. And most commoners don’t trust us. They think us disreputable carousers, men who’ve chosen a life away from society, contributing not to the good of a local village but only to the industry of the Temple. While some in these villages may eventually purchase one of these animals when they go up for the festivals, most people in this land can’t afford the asking price for an unblemished lamb. Instead, they offer the family goat or a pair of pigeons. To the commoners, we shepherds are nothing more than rich men’s slaves, lurking far too close to their doors for comfort.

If our jobs contribute to big business, we see no returns. Those among us who make sacrifice, who choose to brave the stares and upturned noses and occasional, prejudicial threats of the Temple crowds, can afford nothing. All we have to give is the meagerest of possessions – grain meal, which our women harvest from the wild edges of others’ fields. I’ve often sat under the stars at night, watching as the lights of the nearest village extinguish one by one, and wondered to myself, Are we poor because we’re shepherds, or are we shepherds because we’re poor?

We take turns in the fields. Each month, a few men are given leave to return to the encampment and see their women. The rest of us remain in the fields, awaiting our turn to do the same. At night, we sleep in shifts. To stay awake, those on watch walk amongst the flock. When the moon is but a sliver, we must be vigilant. Predators thrive in these hills. Lions, leopards, foxes, and bears all prowl at night. So do thieves who slink down from the rocky hilltops. An unblemished ram fetches quite a price on the black market. In my years, I’ve encountered them all, and I can’t say for certainty which is the most dangerous. On our shifts, we keep alert. A lost ram, a wounded sheep, even an abrasion caused if the flock scatters… every mistake means less pay, and that means less food to send back to camp.

When the lambs are born, we swaddle them. Like babies. When allowed to move about on their own, newborn lambs are maddeningly prone to accidents. One stumble or nick of the hide renders the animal blemished, unfit for the intended sacrifice. Even the birth canal can cause defects. So, our job is to inspect them and then wrap them. A tedious task, but it’s for the best. When the Temple authorities come out to inspect the flock, they’re nothing if not thorough. They expect every animal, from the lambs to the adults, to be perfect. We shepherds receive no praise for those that pass. Only condemnation when blemishes are found. Ours is a thankless job.

This is the season of long nights. Sometimes it feels like darkness is annexing the day, shaving it off at both ends. Papa is long since passed, but his many lessons haven’t faded from my mind. I have children of my own now, back in camp. A few more years and my eldest will join me in these fields, just as I did with my father. I’ll introduce him to these pastures, to the paths we weave among them. I’ll give him a purse and direct him to gather the shorn clumps of wool. I’ll teach him to use a staff, to read tracks, to discern scents on the wind. He’ll learn our way in full and inherit our place in this world. This will be his life, for better or for worse. I often hear Papa’s voice in my mind, those lessons of my youth. Time is a circle, my son. It always repeats, generation to generation, never changing. As reasonable a notion as that seems, when I was younger, I found such words dispiriting. To me, time was a grand story unfolding. And like any good story, at any moment something extraordinary might forever alter our circumstances. Now, after decades of shepherding these fields, rain, shine, and rain again, I see like most things Papa was right. And yet, under these stars tonight, there is the faintest whisper of longing inside me. Longing for something different. For the cycle to be broken. 

Other words fill my mind, too. Behold, speaks the Lord through his prophet, I am doing a new thing. Now it springs up – do you perceive it? I make a way in the wilderness. 

This was a targum – one of the bite-sized pieces of sacred Torah – I’ve held onto since I was small. A good word for any shepherd, I always believed. A call to expectation. To alertness. 

The flock seems restless tonight. Walking among them, I see many shifting about. They don’t doze, but instead pique their ears. They snort and sniff the air, expelling little clouds of frustration. They sense something. Can hear it, or perhaps smell it, drawing close. My hand tightens around my staff. I signal to the others on watch, meeting their eyes. Keep alert, my gaze tells them. Something is near. I can feel my heart quicken. It will be one of those nights.

When it is over, and the fields are quiet again, we stare at one another with stunned expressions. We on watch and the others around the fire, startled awake by the visitation. Some gaze up wonderingly into the starry night, which only moments earlier was filled with a light so bright it is difficult to believe the hills are not now on fire. Around us, the flock calms, chews grass, slips back into a doze. A gentle wind caresses the land. Kaphar and shalom

You must go! I turn as if spoken to, but the other men are still staring, mouths agape. The voice, I realize, is in my mind. Papa’s voice. Only now it is filled with an earnestness quite unlike the man I knew. You must go, my boy! You must see. Now it springs up – do you not perceive it? He makes a way in the wilderness.

When I speak, the sound of my voice in the quiet almost makes me jump. The men look at me questioningly, so I say it again. “We must go. We must see this thing HaShem has told to us.”

“It isn’t for us,” says one of the men by the fire. He’s still clutching the thin blanket that was draped over him before the heavens opened. His eyes are wide, unblinking. He looks to say more – to give reason for his hesitancy – but only repeats, “It isn’t for us. It must be for others.”

I approach the fire. My heart pounds. Those faint whispers of longing from my youth now cry out inside me. All that I ever wished for, which the years in these fields assured me could never be, has indeed broken through and brought an end to the endless cycle, just as I always hoped. How can we – even we – ignore what the Lord wishes us to see?

“It is for us!” I say, wanting it to be true. And then it occurs to me it is true. This message, and this sight, is actually for us!

This will be a sign to you, that extraordinary voice said. A baby, swaddled in cloths, placed in a manger. Like … a lamb. It’s true, HaShem’s face has shined upon us. I step closer to the others around the waning fire. This is no king born in a palace. He will not be found in some wealthy, privileged home. This will be a humble house – the humblest – for the only coverings available to this newborn are swaddling clothes and the only crib an ox’s feeding trough. For whatever reason, this family is hardly better off than we. To us is born an overlooked king, an unnoticed savior. We shepherds, I explain to the men, may be the only ones capable of recognizing him at all.

One of the men gestures to the flock. “Do we just… leave them? How can we?”

“How can we not?” another quickly replies. I see a wide grin spread beneath his scraggly beard. He meets my eyes.

I nod. I realize I’m smiling, too. For the first time, something more precious than these has come. Again, I hear Papa’s voice in my mind. This is kaphar. This is shalom.

Nothing more needs saying. We wrap our cloaks, grip our staves, and set off for the little town lying still and unaware in the distance.

The Carolers

A Short Story

Mitchell could hear the bells down the street. He sat on the white sofa with a drink in his hand, staring at the upholstered arm and the damp ring left by the condensation on the glass. A plate of half-eaten pie rested on the coffee table in front of him, the whipped cream beginning to pool and turn the crust soggy. His tie was loosened, the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone. Thin black dress socks did little to warm his feet. He considered switching on the gas fireplace, but doing so required going down to the basement – still full of moving boxes – and opening the gas valve. He didn’t like going down there if he didn’t have to, didn’t like looking upon the mess. Instead, he sipped his drink while the index finger of his free hand traced the wet circle on the sofa’s arm, and outside the church bells continued ringing.

The television was muted. Eerily silent Claymation figures twitched and wobbled through a winter wonderland. Mitchell recognized it as one of the holiday specials he watched as a child, but he couldn’t remember its title. He craned his neck to look through the window behind him. No snow yet. Earlier in the day, the weather app on his phone had indicated a fifty percent chance of flurries. Wouldn’t that be something? Mitchell had thought to himself. Then he had said the same out loud to Lucy as they drove back to his house. “Wouldn’t that be something, honey? A white Christmas.” But Lucy only rolled her eyes away from him and gazed wearily out the passenger window of the car.

Mitchell continued undaunted. “I remember it happened when I was a kid. Not sure what age I was. Couple years older than you, I think. Maybe it was ’89 or ’90. Not a lot of snow back then, either, but every once in a while. That Christmas, we got some. A white Christmas! It was…” He considered the image for a moment. The memory felt like an item in an antique store, dusty and long-ago disregarded, but perhaps still useful. “Perfect,” he concluded.

“Mm hmm” was Lucy’s response.

Mitchell grinned, then began to intone the first lines of the song in his best Bing Crosby. Lucy didn’t look at him, but he thought maybe through the dark strands of hair curtaining her face he saw the corner of her mouth lift. He kept going, but after “sleigh bells in the snow” he realized he couldn’t remember any more of the lyrics. Something about Christmas cards, he thought, but, sure enough, he butchered it, failing to find the rhyme.

“Dad!” Lucy snapped. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Just stop.”

Looking out on the cul-de-sac from where he now slouched on the sofa, with a vague sense of disappointment Mitchell realized his surroundings didn’t rise to the level of Bing Crosby’s pastoral blessing. It was pretty, of course, but nothing even close to glistening treetops and snowy lanes. The yards were clear, save for the inflatable figures positioned on his neighbor’s front lawn. The big house across the cul-de-sac had spelled out “Merry & Bright” in white holiday lights on the small hill at the edge of their property. All the front windows of the houses were adorned with green wreaths and big red bows, including Mitchell’s house. Only a couple days after moving in, he’d been irked to learn this was a tradition by way of a handwritten note in his mailbox. It wasn’t an HOA thing, the note informed him. Just a pact between everyone on this particular street. By then, however, the retail websites showed “out of stock,” and all the home goods and home improvement stores were mostly picked clean. He’d had to drive to four different places, a couple on the other side of town, just to find enough similar-looking wreaths to cover his windows. All this had left a salty taste in his mouth. All the same, though, he had figured that while he was at it he should probably pick out a tree. It seemed everyone else’s house had one sparkling in their front picture windows. He also grabbed a couple strings of whatever color of lights were left.

In spite of his irritation, the more items Mitchell collected, the stronger the urge came to indulge a sense of holiday nostalgia. He was getting into it, he couldn’t deny. It felt awkward at first, after such a harrowing year, to take pleasure in something so seemingly jejune. But as he drove home from the last store, the backseat of his Audi crammed with decorations and a boxed, six-foot artificial tree, he found himself humming the schmaltzy Christmas Muzak that had trickled from the stores’ speakers. After a few minutes of this, he searched for a holiday station on the satellite radio, hoping to hear the classic, syrupy strains of Burl Ives or Andy Williams. He found, to his disappointment, that the station’s programming was a more bombastic mix of Mariah Carey, The Jonas Brothers, and someone named Ne-Yo. He switched it off, but, still reveling in sentimentality, he tapped his smartphone. The ringing came through the car’s speaker system. Then Marnie picked up.

“Hello, Mitchell.”

“Hey, um…” he started, then found he needed a few seconds to translate his impulsive thought to actual words.

“What do you need?” Her voice was wary and tightly wound.

“I was just thinking– maybe, I dunno, just about what you mentioned back in October– you know, at the arbitrator’s office, you’d said maybe, I mean, if she wanted to–” He took a deep breath and decided to just pull the trigger. “Maybe Lucy could spend this Christmas with me?”

Anxious hesitation on the other end. Then Marnie said, “Are you even all the way moved in?” Her words were thickly coated in incredulity.

“Yeah, no,” Mitchell replied. “I mean, yeah, totally. I’m, you know, all unpacked. Good to go.”

“Really? It’s not just a forest of moving boxes and dry-cleaning you haven’t put away?”

Mitchell felt heat in his ears. He ground his molars, but kept his voice in check. “No, Marn. The boxes are all unpacked. I’ve got her room all ready, too. Even got a Christmas tree.”

“You’re kidding. When did you have time to do all that?”

Mitchell passed on several snide remarks before replying. “Nights and weekends. I just wanted to get settled, that’s all.”

There was a long, dithering sigh on the other end of the line. Mitchell faintly heard another voice in the background, and Marnie’s strained words – likely the receiver was momentarily covered. Then she was back. “Well, I’m not sure. She’s been an absolute pill lately. She completely ignores Mark’s daughters, and she’s refusing to come with us to his parents up in Durham. It’s an annual thing, but obviously this would be our first time. I’m embarrassed to bring her, frankly, and expose his family to whatever horrible phase this is.” She sighed again, and Mitchell could almost hear the conflict clattering in her mind. “This holiday’s going to be difficult enough. I don’t know… Everything’s so different. She’s different.”

The heat drained from Mitchell’s face. He unclenched his jaw. “Marion,” he said softly. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine. Let me.”

Immediately after the call ended, Mitchell veered into the left lane, pulled a u-turn, and screeched into the parking lot of a Bed, Bath, & Beyond. He wasn’t sure if there was room in the Audi for curtains, sheets, pillows, a comforter, and whatever else Lucy’s room still needed, but he was determined to make things fit.

The last chime of the church bells faded into the night. Mitchell took another sip of his drink and then set it down next to the half-eaten gingerbread pie on the coffee table. He had been exceedingly impressed with himself for making the dessert, excited to tell Lucy that the recipe was her great-grandmother’s, that his mother had taught him how to make it and he’d grown up eating it every Christmas (until Marnie’s lactose intolerance forced it off their holiday menus). But Lucy hadn’t touched her slice. When he tried to cajole her – “C’mon, you hardly ate any dinner” – she had begrudgingly severed a minuscule bit of the tip and slipped it between her lips with all the enthusiasm of a five-year-old eating lima beans. Then she had asked to be excused.

Mitchell stood up from the couch and rounded the coffee table to the tree. His sock feet were unsteady on the slick wooden floor. He still needed to purchase a few rugs for the place. The tree was the pre-lit kind with fake snow on the tips of the branches, some kind of solvent stuff. In setting it up, Mitchell had become aware of the fact that Marnie still possessed all the ornament boxes, including the ones he’d inherited from his parents. He thought about calling her back or even stopping by Mark’s house to pick them up, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He’d told her the tree was already set up. Calling her back would raise suspicion, and he refused to give her fresh reasons to doubt him.

He bent down and checked the wrapped presents at the foot of the tree. There were only three – a couple things for Lucy he’d found on Amazon, and, so he had something to open as well, the gift his sales team had given him last week. A small, square box, just the right size and weight to be a coffee mug. Mitchell was almost certain that inside there would be a “We Appreciate You” note and a gift card to a Brazilian steakhouse or something for which they all obligatorily pitched in. It was pretty much the same every year. He stared at the presents. They looked pathetic – just three little boxes sitting alone under a impetuously purchased artificial tree. Mitchell furrowed his brow, trying to envision what tomorrow morning might be like. He’d never spent a Christmas without either his parents or his wife. Marnie was right. It was different. He tried to picture previous Christmases when the three of them were together, but the only memories that came to mind were the weird ones when he’d pushed them to spend in impressive vacation spots like Cabo or Bermuda. Mitchell closed his eyes and thought back farther. After a few seconds, he seized on the image of a tiny Lucy thundering down the stairs. He recalled the dolphin-like squeaks of excitement she used to elicit at the sight of a cluster of presents and a full stocking. Hard to imagine the same girl was now upstairs in her room just–


Mitchell gritted his teeth. He’d forgotten to hang a stocking for her. He punched the floor, feeling a sudden, annoying thickness in his throat. The stockings – the fancy, monogrammed ones – were also with Marnie. Everything was! How was he supposed to recreate it all? All the little details. What the hell had come over him? He’d told himself he was being spontaneous, going with the flow of the holiday season. He was trying to facilitate goodness and cheer and all the stuff one was expected to embrace. Most of all, he was making a real attempt at togetherness. After a year defined by separation and a lack of contact, of arbitration offices and scrupulous custody agreements, was this not commendable? Why, then, wasn’t it going well? Kneeling before the undecorated tree next to a pathetic trio of gifts, he began to view his spontaneity as actually just ignorant recklessness. He wasn’t prepared. Not at all.

He thought of Lucy up in her room, sitting on the polka-dot comforter next to a pair of pink curtains – the colors he had hastily selected from the store. Only after following Lucy into the room, setting down her suitcase, and seeing her confused expression had Mitchell realized he’d shopped with a three-year-old in mind, not a sixteen-year-old who hadn’t worn frilly princess dresses or cute, embroidered jumpers for years. How had he overlooked this?

Then there was their meal – turkey breasts baked with gold potatoes, carrots, and leeks. A mixed green salad. A loaf of French bread with butter. Lucy had eaten a few bites of salad, hardly touched the rest. Mitchell thought of the candles he’d lit, and the new silverware and dinner plates. But then he recalled the lack of a tablecloth and the fact that they’d had to use paper towels because he’d forgotten to buy napkins. It had seemed to him, in the moment, that the details were indelibly necessary. From the moment he’d gotten off the phone with Marnie, he’d scrambled to check every box. But no matter how much work he put in, how thorough he had endeavored to be, gaps remained. A home goods store sold-out of Christmas wreaths. Botching the words to a song he’d heard a thousand times before. These were gashes in the portrait he was desperate to paint.

Mitchell felt the heat rise in his ears. It wasn’t anger coming to a simmer inside him, but something else. Shame. Exasperation. Or maybe, more accurately, it was a sense of powerlessness, like receiving an indecipherable IRS notice in the mail, or when the electricity cuts out during a thunderstorm. There was no reversing things. No exculpation. He had tried his best, but his best simply wasn’t enough. A chill pricked the back of his neck. His fingers touched cold perspiration.

Marnie used to tell him that he wasn’t attentive. That he flew through life at thirty-thousand feet. That he refused to bring his head out of the clouds and actually connect with her. Mitchell always hated to hear her say it, always had a comeback cued up when he suspected the argument was turning down that path. But as those accusations came to mind now, none of his rebuttals seemed as shrewdly astute as he once considered them. He felt the heat rush from his ears into his cheeks. Thickness returned to his throat.

Defiantly, Mitchell cleared his throat and stood up. He walked across the living room toward the foot of the stairs. Outside, his own red and green Christmas lights, tacked around his front door and draped under the eaves, twinkled and jittered in the night breeze. A car pulled slowly into the cul-de-sac, as if taking in each house. Probably some carefree, happy family taking in the neighborhood decorations, Mitchell thought. He turned away from the window and looked up into the bare upstairs hallways.

“Hey, Lucy!”

There was no answer. He waited a few moments, then called again, careful to keep the timbre of desperation out of his voice.

He heard the door open, and a sense of relief engulfed his body. Lucy came to the top of the stairs. He saw she had changed her clothes. Her jeans were heavily frayed at the knees. A snug, purple sweater exposed her midriff. Her dark hair was down and straightened. There was even more makeup on her face. She was carrying her coat.

Mitchell’s face fell. “What are you doing?”

Lucy descended the stairs. “Going to a party.”

“A party? What party? What’re you talking about?”

Lucy exhaled deeply and slid past him at the bottom of the stairs. “Don’t make a big deal of it, Dad, please?”

“A big deal of it?” His voice cracked slightly. “You didn’t say anything about a party. And your mother said that you–“

“I won’t be out late, OK? It’s at Brad Thurman’s house. That’s like one neighborhood away. He’s just having some people over for a Christmas Eve thing.”

“But, Lucy,” Mitchell objected. He stammered for words. “I’ve got you this weekend. We were supposed to celebrate together.”

He stared at her, mouth agape, as she checked herself out in the entryway mirror, one of the only items he’d gotten around to hanging on the walls. “We did celebrate. We had your meal and that pie and everything.”

Mitchell started to reply that she’d practically ignored everything on her plate, and that she was doing the same to him now, but before he could speak, as if she anticipated his comment, Lucy said, “It was nice, Dad. I’m just, you know, still full from lunch at Mark’s house, that’s all. I’ll be home later. Don’t worry. We can, like, do presents or whatever tomorrow morning. Whatever you want.” She passed in front of him again, then peeked through the open window blinds.

“Lucy,” he protested again. “C’mon, honey. I’m trying. I’m… you know… really trying.”

“It’s fine,” she told him. “I gotta go. He’s here.”

Mitchell felt a logjam of words in his brain. Who’s he?, Don’t go, You’re not allowed, I can’t let you go dressed like that, Please stay, We can do anything you want, You don’t have my permission, How dare you think you can just leave?, I’m going to call your mother… None of them seemed correct. They were all as thin as tissue paper, each one pitifully lacking the firmness necessary to reverse the situation. Nevertheless, he opened his mouth to speak – to get something, anything, out – but his throat now seemed utterly choked by an accumulating mass. It snuffed his voice like a wavering candle. He tried to clear his throat again. It came out somewhere between a moan and a whimper.

Lucy opened the door and waved at the car in the cul-de-sac, now idling at the curb in front of the house. Mitchell could just make out the silhouette of a kid in a ball cap and a puffy jacket at the wheel.

“I can drive you!” he blurted, a strained and devastated plea. “I don’t mind.”

Lucy turned to look at him. She was smiling, but he knew it wasn’t genuine. He could see the irritation underneath. Her darkly lined eyes reflected an abiding impatience. Marnie’s voice invaded his mind again: She’s just like you.

“I thought,” he said, stepping outside in his socks, “maybe we could just take a moment to… I mean, we have a chance to reconnect and…” He closed his eyes and tried to gain control of his words. “Look, I know this year hasn’t been easy for you. It’s been hard for me, too. For us all. But we have a chance to–“

The car’s horn cut him off.

It was only a mild bleet, but Mitchell’s eyes immediately narrowed. He took another step outside, fully prepared to sling an expletive or two at the driver. It was quite cold. His face, however, was hotter than ever. When he lifted a hand to point at the car, he saw it was trembling, but not due to the temperature. Directly across the road, the words “Merry & Bright” mocked him, and the window wreaths, like observant eyes, judged him.

“Dad,” Lucy said. He felt her briefly touch his shoulder as she stepped past him. “Just let it go. You’re making too much of this. Relax, OK? I’ll be back later. Don’t worry.”

Then she was in the passenger seat and not looking his way again. The car rolled away from the curb, then picked up speed against the quickening wind. Its headlights swept across the lawns, momentarily illuminating a group of pedestrians making their way toward the cul-de-sac along the sidewalk. He watched her disappear at the far end of the street by the church, where the church’s doors stood open and parishioners buttoned their coats as they headed for the parking lot.

He stood on the concrete walkway in front of his house, arms folded to hide his shaking. His gaze drifted from one house to the next, the warm yellow glow of their windows, the twinkling lights, the red ribbons, the garland-lined front porches, the ornamented trees in the front windows. From where he stood, it all appeared so pure and established, as if all the decorations had sprung up naturally out of faithfully cultivated earth. Every detail perfectly curated and checked off the list.

Presently, the group of pedestrians on the sidewalk paused in front of the house with “Merry & Bright” spelled out on the lawn. One of them walked briskly up to the front door and rang the bell, then rejoined the group. Mitchell watched as the door opened and the figure of his neighbor filled the doorway. The group promptly began singing.

Once in royal David’s city
Stood a lowly cattle shed

The carolers’ breath rose in small white clouds. The neighbor, whose name Mitchell did not know, had not yet taken the time to meet, turned quickly and shouted into the house. Moments later, several more people crowded the doorway, and they all stepped onto the porch.

Despite the cold burrowing through his thin dress shirt and slacks, Mitchell did not move. He listened to the entire carol. Then he watched the group move further along the sidewalk while the neighbors at the first house clapped and called out holiday greetings. The carolers repeated the process at the next house. Mitchell saw that their audience this time was an elderly couple and no one else. Since moving in, he’d seen the man, tall and lanky, puttering around the flower beds on occasion.

Lo, how a rose e’er blooming,
From tender stem hath sprung

The couple peacefully received the music. The man put his arm around his wife and drew her close against the chill. It was clear that the carolers had rehearsed. Two men, standing behind the rest, intoned a low, noble register, while a trio of women’s voices harmonized with one another. There was also a pair of children, maybe nine or ten years of age, their angelic voices lifting into the night. It really was lovely.

At the third house, the one next to Mitchell’s, the carolers began very softly. At first the words seemed lost within the sound of the wind sifting through the tree boughs. But then the breeze deposited a ruminative, haunting melody in Mitchell’s ears. He glanced at his next-door neighbor, who had come out to stand at the edge of his yard with his wife and four children huddled together. The glow of the inflatable decorations cast them in a faint, green light.

Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Something icy and tiny touched Mitchell’s cheek. Another alighted on the back of his neck. Several white specks fluttered in front of his face. He looked down and saw more clinging to the edge of his tie, and speckling his black dress socks. The carolers sang on.

Gave thee clothing of delight
Softest clothing wooly bright
Gave thee such a tender voice
Making all the vales rejoice

Catching his breath, Mitchell reached a quivering finger to the edge of his nose and gently lifted away a flake. He stared at it inquisitively as it slowly dissolved upon his fingertip. More nanoscopic jabs of ice, more wetness on his cheeks. He turned away from the carolers and raised his eyes. A million tiny stars were falling to earth. He tried to clear his throat again. Sniffled.

The carol was concluding: Little Lamb, God bless thee. Little Lamb, God bless thee. The children clapped. The wife called out, “Beautiful!” The husband nodded his head and thanked them. Mitchell’s head was still tilted skyward, but he figured they were now approaching his house. He heard the scrape of thick shoes on the sidewalk.

Then came a soft count-off, and the carolers began in perfect unison.

God rest ye merry gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
Remember Christ our Savior
Was born on Christmas Day

They were swaddled in heavy winter coats, their necks nestled in bright scarves. Two of the women were wearing fuzzy hats. One of the children, the smallest, wore mittens. His cheeks were noticeably pink. The group bobbed slightly and merrily with the tempo, smiling contentedly as they sang. Flurries dusted their coats and stuck in the women’s eyelashes. It was perfect, Mitchell thought. Worth a thousand window wreaths and Gingerbread pies. He wished Lucy was still up in her room, wished he could run back in the house and call to her. Here, finally, was something for her to see, something she wouldn’t be able to brush aside.

O tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy

Mitchell smiled and prepared to offer applause, but the carolers quickly launched into a second verse, so he folded his arms against the cold and kept smiling. Meanwhile, the mass in his throat seemed to be swelling in size, becoming hard to ignore. There was an aching soreness behind his eyes. He felt some of the flurries on his cheeks melt and begin to roll to his chin. He sniffled again.

O tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy

Again, he unfolded his arms to clap. Again, the carolers continued to another verse, to lyrics beyond familiarity for Mitchell. The carolers kept smiling and bobbing and singing, and so he stood before them, shivering but respectfully receiving their gift. His feet, however, had turned to leaden blocks. And he was struggling to swallow. He could feel more flurries melting and flowing freely down his cheeks. The harmonious voices, lovely as they were, began to sound hollow in his ears. His was the last house on the cul-de-sac, he realized. Perhaps this carol was their finalé. Stand here just a little longer.

The singers bid him tidings of comfort and joy a third time. And then a fourth. Mitchell was fully shaking now. It was the cold outside, of course, but he felt his very equilibrium crumbling. Perhaps the shaking wasn’t only coming from an exterior frozenness. The music was summoning a reaction inside him, too. He did not want to be out here anymore, and yet he couldn’t just turn his back on the carolers and walk inside, could he? What kind of person did that? Mitchell tried to recollect his upbringing, the Christmas Eve services from decades past, and how many verses were in this carol. How much longer would these words go on? He felt feverish, his face hot, his neck cold, his eyes swollen and stinging.

O tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy

At the final refrain, he fell. His backside hit the concrete walkway, and he crumpled into a feeble sitting position, his arms hanging limply between his knees. His shoulders jerked up and down. He tucked his chin between the open collar of his dress shirt. Involuntary noises escaped his sputtering lips. His face was soaked. Hundreds of flurries, it must have been, melting and dripping down his face.

In the absence of music, there were a few awkward claps from next door. His neighbor’s family had remained outside to marvel at the snow and listen to the next carol. Mitchell wondered if the old couple was still outside, too, watching from their porch. So be it, he decided. Let them all stare at him. Let them stare at the single, middle-aged executive who’d only recently moved onto the street. Let them wonder why he was alone on Christmas Eve and collapsed on his lawn in front of a group of strangers. What did it matter?

“Sir?” one of the female carolers said. “Are you OK?”

“We shouldn’t have sung all five verses,” said another. “You’re not even wearing a coat.”

“Or shoes,” added one of the men.

Mitchell lifted his head and peered up at them from where he sat, his face a messy contortion of despondency and smeared snot. His entire body shook like a washing machine. Yet he cupped his hands like a beggar and lifted them. “Would you p-please…” he began, his teeth starting to chatter between words, “s-sing another?”

The men at the rear of the group looked at each other. One of the women wearing a fuzzy hat frowned and placed a cautious hand on both children’s shoulders. “Are you sure you don’t want to go warm yourself inside?”

Fighting for control against his quaking, Mitchell firmly shook his head.

The carolers consulted one another with confused expressions. They shrugged. They mouthed a couple things back and forth to each other. Mitchell heard one suggest, at a whisper, that perhaps they should just repeat the first song they had sung.

“Could you m-maybe…” Mitchell uttered, “s-s-sing ‘White Christmas’?”

“What’s ‘White Christmas?'” one of the children asked, looking up at the adults.

“It’s not a carol,” the fuzzy hat woman answered.

“P-p-please?” he struggled. “If-f-f you d-don’t mind.”

“Sir, I really think you should put on a coat.”

“I w-w-will,” he answered. “Aft-t-t-ter the song.”

Again the carolers exchanged uncomfortable glances. The neighbor next door quietly ushered his children back into the house. The woman in the middle of the ensemble finally shook her head. She started to say something, a disinterested look on her face, but suddenly a low, noble voice cut her off.

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
Just like the ones I used to know

Mitchell hugged himself. He closed his eyes. The man’s voice was sturdy, yet sonorous. There was warmth in it, and an elusive kind of sincerity. Mitchell dragged the damp sleeve of his dress shirt across his eyes and leaking nose. He said, “You s-s-sound like Bing Crosby.” An odd peacefulness settled upon him. It didn’t calm his shaking, but it did seem to assuage the tumult inside of him. He began to sing along softly.

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
With every Christmas card I write
May your days be merry and bright
And may all your Christmases be white

Mitchell smiled and nodded. “That’s r-right,” he whispered. “That’s the w-way it goes.”

The Stall


I do my best to hide the pain.

The little house is crowded. With the relatives in town, there is hardly a place to sit, let alone a private room or a bed to oneself. I share with Yosef’s younger sisters, but at night I must turn about constantly. Eventually, one of the sisters takes hold of a blanket and moves to the floor, not far from where her brothers sleep. This morning, I wake with an aching back and an odd cramping pain that flares up at random. Throughout the day, I bite my lip, trying not to show how uncomfortable I am.

Lately, the baby seems completely uninterested in sleep. He moves about my womb with a great, bouncing restlessness. The women of the house say he’s eager to be born, that he’s impatient to meet everyone. One of the sisters wonders aloud if all the kicking and shifting means he’ll be a handful to raise. I feign a laugh, but I’m wondering the same thing. The child’s abiding energy unnerves me.

I count it a grace that the women even indulge my presence. None of this has come easily for them either. I don’t begrudge the forced kindness in their tones, or the way they maintain a slight distance from me most of the time. Occasionally I’ll turn my head and catch one of the sisters quickly averting her stare. It’s to be expected. Here in the southern lands there are less whispers, but whispers nonetheless. These women may trust Yosef, but that doesn’t mean they’ll ever fully trust me.

It’s difficult not to have Yosef nearby. Everyone is more gracious when he’s around. He has a calm and quiet way. Without saying a word, he can evoke goodness and courtesy from an entire household. But he doesn’t linger in the house. When the morning sun gilds the eastern hills, he’s out the door, his purse thrown over his shoulder and weighed down with tools. The better part of each day he gives to the community – repairs their lentils, patches their roofs, restores the walls in their homes that have begun to crumble. Like his father before him, Yosef is an agent of renewal for this village that has watched him come of age. And now, with the census, there’s more work to be done, more people to shelter, more mouths to feed.


The odd morning pain has increased. It no longer seems random, nor does the discomfort abate for long. I try to mask it, try to turn my winces into smiles. My heartbeat quickens. I know what’s happening, and I’m afraid.

Not now. Not yet.

Some evenings, Yosef eats with those whose homes he has serviced that day. The others, he appears only briefly, hardly long enough to dip a hunk of bread in the stew and chew, before withdrawing again to the ongoing project outside. From where I sit now, furtively breathing through the contractions, I can hear them on the other side of the house wall – Yosef and his younger brother scraping and packing and grunting from the weight of the materials, and the short statements from their father, Yakov, whose knotted, shaking hands have long-since precluded him from work, but who still points trembling knuckles and offers experienced advice. It is slow work, and now I worry it has been too slow. My throat lumps, and tears push against the back of my eyes. After all, it’s my fault the room hasn’t been finished. Yosef is more than a capable builder, but because of all that has happened, and the way it has happened, he hasn’t had enough time to complete the job.

Yet it seems HaShem has completed his.


“Are you all right, child?” Yosef’s mother is gazing up at me from the bottom of the stairs that lead to the lower level of the house. She has been lining the mangers with hay. Behind her, the sisters lead the animals inside for the night – a goat and two ewes freshly sheered, one of which carries a lamb of her own. She walks slower than the other, bleating meekly as she’s jostled inside. I know how she feels.

“I’m fine.” The old woman eyes me carefully. “It’s just… just the baby moving again. There’s no room.”

“Sounds to me like there’s plenty of room,” she replies.

The sisters finish shooing the animals to the troughs. Their mother hands a large clump of hay to one of them to take to the work ox, which is tied up outside – a shared possession among the neighbors. The dog trots inside as well and takes his place at the foot of the stairs. Yosef’s mother closes the door, then steps deftly over him and ascends the three steps to the main level. She meets my eyes and continues. “To be moving about like he is, there must be room enough.”

I nod. A tremor rattles. I exhale nervously. I know Yosef’s mother has been keeping watch over me. She’s nothing if not perceptive. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to conjure peaceful thoughts.

The one that comes to my mind – that has sustained me even as my anxieties have swelled – is the image of Yosef stepping across the threshold. Not the threshold of this house, but rather my father’s house.


Only four months ago, he turned from me. I had begun to show, and the rumors were spreading. Our confrontation was inevitable. I told him everything, as bewildering a tale as I knew it would be. The more I said, the more those expressive eyes of his flared with stifled fury and humiliation. Of course they did! How do you describe something like that and not sound utterly mad? His warm expression grew cold as he listened. His lips were set like a seal, locking in all emotion. Then my father sent me out of the room, but even from the courtyard I could hear their tense conversation, the shock and frustration in Yosef’s voice. I knew something had been broken. Like water from a cracked well, his trust was draining away.

I didn’t expect to see him again. No one did. But now, in my mind’s eye, the scene unfolds anew, and for a few moments it calms my nervous breathing. I see Yosef at the door of my father’s house, not a month later. His hands are clasped in front of him as he steps inside and removes his sandals. I watch, my heart in my throat, as he kneels in front of my father and asks his mercy. Then I am left open-mouthed when he does the same to me. “Forgive me,” he whispers. “I didn’t know. I didn’t understand.” I want to cry and laugh and speak all at once. I want to tell him that I hardly understand it either. I want to ask him what has changed, why has he returned? But I have no words. Here he is, back in Nazara, back in the home that scorned him, and he is on his knees like a chastened sinner, deferring to me. “Forgive me, Miriam,” he says, and the only response I am capable of is to reach out and take his hand in mine.

I’ve clung to that hand ever since.


“When do you think they will finish?” one of the sisters asks as the goat and the sheep nose eagerly at the hay in the mangers. The other sister is about the work of preparing the house for another crowded sleep – spreading blankets on the berths and the floor. Outside, scraping sounds testify that mortar is being spread. Incrementally, the walls grow. Just a few more days is all Yosef needs to finish it. I imagine the privacy such a room could offer. If only it were already finished.

“Soon enough,” Yosef’s mother answers.

“Will someone be able to sleep there?”

“Of course,” the older woman answers. “But not until after the ceremony.” She unfurls a blanket and spreads it below the bed I’m to sleep on. A few feet away, Yosef’s youngest brother is already asleep, snoring loudly. Yosef’s mother surveys the room, a grimace on her face. I know she recognizes how small the house has become. She doesn’t let on, but her concern for the new room to be completed is as heightened as mine. She tosses a fleeting look in my direction, evaluating me with a glance. I try to keep my composure, but I’m sweating now. I wonder if she is aware that time is up. The room is not finished, and there is no place available inside either. No suitable space for what is about to happen.

She turns away to fetch another blanket. That is when I double-over as another wave of pain rolls through me. Gripping the edge of the table, my fingernails dig into the rough wood.

“Will the ceremony be… before…?” Yosef’s sister falls silent. From across the candlelit room, she sees.

“Let’s not discuss it right now,” says her mother softly. Then her eyes catch sight of her daughter’s gaze, and she whirls to look at me again.


Before anyone can speak a word, the door to the house opens and in steps Yosef’s father, brother, and, finally, Yosef himself. Chilled night air billows in behind them. Yakov walks right past me, shedding his cloak. “It’s started raining,” he announces with disappointment. “Not long, I reckon, but we’ll have to take a break for now.”

Yosef’s mother ignores her husband. She rushes past him and both brothers to kneel at my feet. She lays her hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right, child?”

“Miriam?” Yosef’s soft voice is tinged with concern.


I hardly want to move for fear I’ll make the pain worse. My face contorts. This newest wave is horrible. Is it supposed to feel like this?

“Breathe, my dear,” says the old woman, taking my hand. “Breathe long and slow.”

“I can’t… there’s no…”

“Don’t speak. Breathe.”

“But there’s no…”

“Just breathe.”

A shudder overwhelms me, from my shoulders down to my feet. My jaw tightens. I want to speak, to raise a protest – I can’t have this child here! There’s no room! – but my body won’t allow it.

“Breathe, Miriam,” she urges. “It helps to breathe.”

“What can I do?” The inquiries come from all directions, from Yosef’s brother, from Yakov, even from the younger one who, in the suddenly tense and crowded house, has sat up rubbing his eyes.

One of the sisters rushes forward and crouches next to us. “Fetch a basin and as much clean cloth as you can find,” her mother commands. Through squinting eyes, I see her gaze pass over the room once more. Her brow is furrowed. She looks dissatisfied, disappointed. I want to apologize, to tell her how sorry I am, sorry for what I’ve done to their family, for the turmoil I’ve caused, but I’m still paralyzed by the contractions.

“Mother,” says Yosef, kneeling on the other side and taking hold of my other hand. I immediately squeeze it, and won’t let it go.

“Don’t fear, my son,” she says, but she doesn’t look at him. She is still considering the room.

“It’s not finished,” he tells her. “The walls, or the roof. And it’s raining.”

Red-faced, I suck in breath. A moan escapes my clenched throat.

“I know,” Yosef’s mother whispers. “We need space and privacy. There are too many people in this house!”

Finally, the intensity lessens, and I release a long, ragged breath. Tears immediately follow. My shoulders tremble with sudden, uncontrollable sobbing.

Yosef places his other hand over mine. “Miriam, it’ll be-”

“Draw some water,” his mother interrupts, “and heat it. Quickly.”

“No!” I cry as Yosef stands up. I can’t bear him leaving my side.

“Don’t be afraid,” she tells me, taking hold of my hand and working it free. She is surprisingly strong. Yosef hurries away. His brother frantically stokes the hearth fire. “I want you to try to stand up,” she says softly. She’s come around and is already lifting me from the chair.

Somehow, I gain my feet. My knees shake. Where are we going?

Yosef’s mother looks for her other daughter, finds her standing frozen at the foot of the lower level steps, eyes as full and wide as the moon. “Put the animals out,” she says abruptly. “And bring in more straw.”

“But… but where is she going to…”

“Don’t stand there blubbering, girl! Do as I say. We need room, however we can get it.”

“My dear,” Yosef’s father says. “The stall?”

Still holding me tightly, she turns to her husband. “Yes, Yakov. The stall.”


I’m hit again. Unable to hold back a scream, I collapse against the old woman, but she keeps me upright. “Breathe, child. Breathe.” Then she looks back to her husband. “If there’s no room, then we’ll have to make room. Help us down these steps, and then go give word to the women. Tell them where to find us.”

“Mother,” says Yosef’s brother. “Let me go to the neighbor’s and ask if we might-”

“Enough of that,” the old woman insists. “We’ll not be shooing this poor girl all over Bet Lehem. She is in no condition for it. The stall will do. What matters is the child. Now, be silent and fetch some blankets.”

Yosef’s mother is practically carrying me, an astonishing feat for a woman of so small a frame. Her daughter frantically shoves the animals away. The dog scampers back, and the pregnant ewe gives an irritated bleat as she waddles back through the stall door and into the courtyard. Yakov, soon to become my father, somehow keeps the two of us balanced with his palsied hands. We slowly descend the wooden steps to the dusty, straw-laden floor. The smell of musk, hay, and excrement greets my nose. Nausea floods through me.

“I can’t,” I tell them. “It can’t be here.”

A voice behind me, confident and calming, says, “It will be all right, Miriam. I’m here. I’m going to stay by your side.”

“Don’t be afraid, child,” his mother whispers in my ear as we shuffle toward the rear stall, as private a spot as can be found in the little house. “I know it’s not the way you wanted or the way you expected, but even in such a place as this, HaShem is with you. He is with us all. You’re not alone. You’ve never been alone.”