The Wonderous Gift is Given

The moon shone brilliantly through the large stone window, throwing shadows over the young, powerful body that stood behind the stone counter. Owning the inn was a large job for even the healthiest man, and keeping it clean kept Aha in very good shape. It had only been three years since he had purchased it from Elizar of Damascus, but for Aha every day had been filled with strenuous labor.

Today had been an exceptionally hard day, filled with cleaning, dusting and the like. There were so many people in town now, all come to pay their taxes and be counted. Now he stood behind the counter anxiously waiting the time when he could finally go to bed.

Aha's bright blue eyes glistened in the silvery light as the clouds crept silently across the moon's path. "There is more light than usual tonight," he thought as he walked toward the window. "There is always much light in Jerusalem, but not here in Bethlehem. It is such a small town. I wonder where it comes from."

As Aha leaned on the stone window, he saw a brilliant star far away in the eastern sky. It was a star he had not seen before, and Aha stood for several minutes transfixed by the beauty of the celestial body.

A sudden rap on the door snapped Aha out of his dream and back into reality. "Who could be calling at this hour?" he whispered to himself.

As he pulled the heavy oak door open, he saw outside a poorly-dressed man and a woman sitting on a small donkey. "They are Nazarenes," he thought, looking at their tattered clothing. Dust covered the man's face and both looked very tired and in great need of a night's rest.

"Sir," the man said, "we have traveled many days and my wife is great with child. Do you have a room where we could rest for the night?"

Aha looked at the woman. Her weathered clothing did her no justice, for she was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. He could tell that she was extremely tired, but her eyes still danced with joy, and the smile on her face made Aha's heart leap within him.

But they were Nazarenes. He could not let Nazarenes stay in his inn. What would his brethren say if they found out?

"I am sorry," he said. "I do not have a room for you." The words sounded deafeningly in his ears, for he knew he had a bed in which the woman could lie down.

The woman looked into Aha's face and smiled. "Are you sure?" her husband asked. "We have already been to all of the other inns. You are our last hope here in Bethlehem."

Aha gazed into her eyes again. There were so beautiful and seemed to entrance his heart with charity. Love swelled his heart and he smiled. "I have a bed where your wife can rest, but it is in a room that is already occupied."

The man's frame dropped slightly, but he smiled and said, "Thank you," as he turned to leave.

Aha looked at the woman. She was still smiling, but now slightly sadder. Aha's heart nearly burst.

Quickly he cried, "Wait!" The man turned abruptly and Aha said, "I do have a small stable that I think would be very comfortable. Sometimes travelers stay there if the town is very crowded. You would have privacy there and the hay is very soft. Come, I will show you."

Aha quickened his pace as he led the couple to the back of his inn, his heart overflowing with inexplicable joy.

Aha busied himself with making the two comfortable. Running back and forth between the inn and the stable, he noticed that his body ached no more, but rather he felt stronger than he had in weeks. Blankets, pillows and hot stew filled his arms while love for the woman filled his soul.

That night, the woman delivered her first born baby, a son. Aha brought out more blankets for the baby, for the night was becoming chill. As he wrapped the blanket around the child and put him back in the manger, Aha looked into his eyes and dropped to his knees. Never before had he beheld such a precious baby. Only minutes old, his bright blue eyes twinkled as eh looked into Aha's face and smiled.

Far into the wee hours of the morning, Aha tended to the needs of the small family, ignoring the aches and pains that presented themselves with no small force to his mind. Gone were the misgivings about his unforgiving brethren. Gone was the hesitation. Gone was all hatred he had ever felt. They were all replaced by an inexorable amount of charity. No gift, no matter how precious, was too for this child.

Thirty-three years pass in what seemed like one beat of Aha's heart. He reflected many times on the occurrences of that night so long ago. He remembered how he had cried into his pillow for many hours and how his heart had nearly exploded with love when the child smiled at him. Never would he forget that smile and the look of love that emanated from those electrifying eyes.

Walking toward Jerusalem, Aha noticed that his leg hurt more today than it usually did. It had been nearly twenty years since he had fallen off the ladder as he put the finishing touches on his inn. It had needed a good whitewashing for quite some time, but after the fall he had to leave the inn business to someone else. The doctor told him that he would never be able to walk without a limp and that small, wooden cane would, from thenceforth, be his constant companion.

Aha laid the hated cane on the ground and sat down on a large rock. Many times had he wished that his body would do the things he loved to do in his youth; running, jumping and playing with his children. But it was not to be. He was now nearly 60-years old, and his leg would not move with the grace that it once did.

He looked down at the crippled limb and gave it a brisk run. "I do not have time for such thoughts today," he whispered as he shook the dreams from his head. "It is Passover time and I must get to Jerusalem before they close the gates."

Gingerly, Aha grabbed the can and stood erect, continuing on his journey to the Holy City.

A huge crowd had gathered in Jerusalem that day, more than the usual Passover throng. A buzz rang steadily through the air, something about a blasphemer and a false prophet. Full of curiosity, Aha hobbled to the front of the crowd. He had seen public trials before in Jerusalem, but this one today filled him with an indescribable horror. People, Jews like himself, were crying for a man's crucifixion.

What had this man done that was so terrible that God's chosen people were asking the heathen Romans to put him to death?

Several minutes later, Aha felt the rush of the crowd lining the streets of the city. The man had been convicted, sentenced to death by the Roman emperor, Pontius Pilate. The convicted man would pass by soon, carrying his cross.

As the man approached, Aha felt pity for him. Never had he seen a man treated with such disdain and degradation. Several times the man fell beneath the weight of the huge cross, only to be whipped by the unfeeling Roman soldiers. Men, women an children, even members of the illustrious Sanhedrin, derided him and spit upon him. His head dripped with blood, his back scarred and bleeding. The rough stones of the rugged road had opened large gashes in his knees. Despite all of the persecution which rained about him, Aha thought he could sense an air of kingly dignity about the man.

Stumbling along the road toward his death, the man fell directly in front of the old inn-keeper. Aha quickly hobbled to a nearby fountain and filled a gourd with pure, cold water. Returning, he pressed the gourd to the man's lips, but the centurion pushed Aha aside, spilling the water over the cold stone.

Looking up into the man's face, Aha was transfixed by the deepness of his eyes. "I'm sorry," said Aha, smiling. The man nodded.

A burning began in Aha's breast and spread until it had filled his whole being. That smile. That beautiful smile! It was the same smile he had seen more than thirty years earlier from that beautiful child in the manger. It was the same love he had felt that night for the child and his mother. This was that wonderful baby!

Aha watched from the ground as the centurion forced the man to his feet and made him continue his agonizing journey. People stepped over him and kicked his battered leg, leaving him at the back of the morbid procession. Tears welled up in his eyes as his love for the man grew to immeasurable bounds.

Aha had watched the pathetic criminals make their way slowly through the cobblestone streets to Golgotha many times. But he had never grown accustomed to the gruesome sight and sound of steel ripping massive holes through the person's flesh. It made him sick to think of it. But today, he watched carefully as the man he loved was nailed to a cross.

"He is the Messiah," something whispered in his heart. "He is the promised one, the Savior, the King." Aha looked up at the Man, falling to his knees in front of the cruel cross.

"Why is this happening?" he asked. "If He is the Messiah, He must be a just man. Why do they do this to Him?"

"Do not worry, Aha," said the stirring voice. "He IS a just man and He will ride again from the dead in three days. He dies now for you. Lay your burdens at His feet. He alone has power to save you from your sins."

The words cut quickly and deeply into the soul of the inn-keeper. Tears coursed his face and his trembling hands were lifted in a mighty prayer of repentance. "Please forgive me, Lord, of the wrongs that I have committed."

He brushed the tears from his face and looked into the eyes of the One on the cross. A bitter smile swept across His face, and even then, in the gall of His agony, that same love that Aha had seen thirty-three years before from the eyes of that baby, exuded from His soul. It was then, when Aha felt that same charity radiating like the sun from the Man's eyes, he vowed to make the rest of his life more like the short life of the Man on the cross. He would let the world know of Him and what He had done. Like no one else, Aha had a wondrous story to tell.

Aha picked himself up off of the ground, wiped the dusty trails of tears from his face and turned toward Bethlehem. For only the second time in his life his heart smiled as much as did his face. Slowly, Aha made his way back to his hometown, walking now without a limp, and the small, wooden cane, so long his constant companion, lie at the foot of the cross.