And died—but not to me.
When Christmas comes I see Him still arise,
The gentle, the compassionate, the wise,
Wiping Earth’s tears away, stilling her strife;
Calling, “My path is Peace; My way is Life!”
—Author Unknown.
I GO OVER TO BETHLEHEM
It was clear and cold. The hills of Moab were deep blue. They seemed very near. In a low carriage that bore every mark of long service, drawn by two thin dark horses and driven by an Arab in a dull brown Bedouin coat, with the long, heavy head-dress falling over his shoulders and protecting him from rain or sun, we drove out through the gate. Dark eyes watched us curiously. The horses at first were swift of foot and the carriage lurched and rolled down the steep grade of the valley of Hinnom, past the former German colony, over the new bridge; then, losing their enthusiasm, they climbed slowly. On a hillside the sheep were feeding, but how they could find enough to sustain life on those bare rocky slopes is hard to understand. Now we passed a flock following the shepherd in his vari-colored coat down a steep incline and through a valley which in the rainy season would be a rushing stream. We could hear the lambs call, and now and then the shepherd’s reprimand to a straying sheep. Over there were the fields of Boaz. How beautiful they must have looked when the heavy sheaves of wheat were yellow in the sun. The land of Moab seemed such a short distance away as we who had been half-way round the world thought of distance, but to loyal, faithful, loving Ruth those desert plains, rounded hills, and deep valleys meant distance enough to separate her forever from the home and kindred she must leave behind. The brave words came back to us: “Whither thou goest, I will go; thy people shall be my people and thy God my God.” She deserved the happiness she won out there in the fields as she followed the reapers. As if agreeing with our unspoken thoughts our guide turned and looked down at us. “Boaz, the owner of the field, married Ruth, the Moabite girl. She was very beautiful,” he said.
The wind was bleak on the hilltop as it was that night centuries ago and we were glad when we reached the protection of the low stone houses of the village of Bethlehem. Such a tiny village! Nothing was left of the glory of that other day when the busy tax-gatherers checked up the names of the people and the keeper of the Inn hurried about trying in vain to find room for his guests, when officers of the army in resplendent uniform and civil officers proud and haughty made every Jewish pilgrim conscious of the power of great Rome.
Nothing remains of the old inn or khan which was crowded on that night to its very gates. Thankful indeed must both Joseph and Mary have been for the protection of the cave with its great manger hewn out of the rock. Over that spot to which they went so gratefully for shelter now stands the Church of the Nativity. It is a simple beautiful church, but the shrines within are garish indeed.