(Part II of my reimagining of this story from the Gospel of St. Luke, chapter 2. Part I can be found here.)

The couple came in with a baby, obviously preparing to offer a sacrifice for the child in accordance with the Law’s requirements. I stared at them as they passed. (I did so with many who entered the Temple, sometimes to their extreme discomfort.) The girl looked over and our eyes locked. There was something behind those eyes that I’d never seen before. It drew me to her with a call so faint I almost missed it. With more strength than I thought I possessed, I raised my weary bones to my feet and rushed to get closer to them. In my haste, I crashed into one of the money changers who made a mockery of the temple. If I’d knocked him to the ground, I wouldn’t have spent a moment regretting it. He didn’t belong there.

The woman, who was not much more than a child herself, didn’t move. She waited as if expecting my approach. To his credit, her companion stepped between us. His caution was understandable. A strange, wild-eyed old man who looked as if he was about to accost his wife justified his concern. In response, I paused. But the woman stepped around the man and stood before me with her little one. That’s when I got a good look at the baby.

It was the child.

I’d always expected the Anointed One to stride into view in royal attire, borne by a mighty stallion or a chariot, unmistakable, ready to assert His privilege and power. I pictured myself bowing before Him, worshiping Him in His glory. But it was a baby. A helpless infant. Surely I’d mistaken my hope for truth.

Nothing set this newborn apart from the many others I’d encountered over my long vigil. Little wisps of hair, ruddy wrinkled skin, eyes unfocused, cooing and fussing in his mother’s arms. No, it wasn’t just my hope. It was the Spirit once more, divulging a deep truth about the little one. It was him. Never had I been so sure of anything.

But what could I do? More than I could express, I wanted to touch him, make his parents understand who it was they held. Maybe I should have been satisfied merely to let my eyes rest on his tiny form and go home to die, content. Doubtless prompted by the same Spirit that drew me to her, the woman held the child out to me. I became aware of the fact that I was trembling. Nonetheless, I took him from her, in awe of what was happening.

Before I knew it, I was speaking. Or rather the Spirit was speaking through me. Having the Spirit speak to me, while precious, wasn’t new, but this? The words came tumbling out unbidden. I spoke to Jehovah. I spoke to the couple. The statements felt profound, prophetic, but I had no idea what they meant. If the couple looked confused and amazed, I was even more so. There would be time to mull over the meaning of the message later. For the moment, I held it in my heart. I could see his mother doing the same.

Then came the words I wish I could have swallowed rather than spoken. Better the bitterness in my mouth than wounding that poor woman. Even as I saw the message cut her, I felt the sword in my own heart. A heart attack? Was God so soon demanding my part of the prophecy? Was this already the end I’d long expected? No, it was our pain, the mother’s and mine, shared. But hers was yet to come.

It was finished. Carefully, tenderly, I handed the baby back to his mother. I tasted the tears on my lips before I realized I was crying. Was it joy? Perhaps. Was it the fact that I knew now that my days on earth would soon draw to a close? No. It was peace. I almost didn’t recognize it because it was a peace like nothing I’d ever known. It defied explanation and expectation. It was a sense of completion, of hope fulfilled, of a promise kept.

Out of respect, I dipped my head to the couple before they disappeared into the crowd, still looking unsure of what they’d seen and heard. I’d seen Him. I’d touched Him. And He had touched me.

To think I almost didn’t get out of bed.