Maybe it’s all those crèches on front lawns, or maybe it’s due to illustrated children’s Bibles, but I always pictured Mary and Joseph arriving at an inn late at night: the sky inky black, the stars twinkly, and the only light a flickering oil lamp. In my imagination the inn is a square adobe structure with a couple windows and a thatched roof.
Joseph sheepishly knocks on the wood door as Mary eases herself down off the donkey. The innkeeper comes to the door in a robe, with his tousled hair stuffed up into a nightcap. He wants to help, but he looks over his shoulder and, with a shake of his head and a shrug, confirms that he just doesn’t have any spare rooms.
Joseph looks down at his dusty sandals. His shoulders slump. There’s a chill in the air. And he’s just about to muster up the courage to plead when the innkeeper brightens with an idea. You could go out back to the stable. You could build a little fire. The hay is dry and you could sleep on that. It’d be better than trying to travel more—given her condition. And Jesus is born in a barn of warm, worn woods, soft light, and gently lowing cows.
