Midwife Martha Advent 2 - 4/12/22
In his book ‘Walking backwards through Christmass’ Bishop Stephen Cottrell writes in a first-person style with some of the characters that were around when Our Lord was born. One of these characters was
Martha the midwife. Bishop Stephen writes…
‘I’ve had seven children,’ I told her. ‘I’ll help you with this one.’
And so I did. Through the long hours of her labour: through the choppy waters of strong and mounting contractions; through the calm waters of boredom and wondering if it will happen at all; through the screaming and the vomiting, when she cried out that she was too exhausted to go on, and when I myself started wondering if this child would ever be de- livered; I sat with her. I held her hand. I wiped her brow. I told her stories of my own seven births. I felt between her legs to judge whether she was ready or not.
Her husband – Joseph, I gathered his name was – paced. He was what you might call a traditional father. He didn’t actually do anything. He just kept muttering – or was he praying? – that all this was from God and was safe with God.
‘Well, you’re safe with me,’ I told him. ‘now hold this cloth, and wipe her face when I tell you.’
In the darkest hour of the night, I suppose about two or three o’clock, the baby’s head appeared. He stared, blinking and gawping at the world for what seemed an age. And she was crying out with the pain of it, and the great longing for the baby to be free. It was one of those strange halfway moments between the womb and the world, between what was, what is and what will be. Then with the next contraction, on a spasm of pain and joy, he was born.
I pulled him free and held him up for his mother to behold: a boy, all green and grey with the mucus of the womb and the effort of birth. I didn’t need to spank him or pat his little back. the breath seemed to rush into him, and he filled his lungs and let out a loud, piercing cry. I laughed at him. ‘Loud enough to wake the dead,’ I said to his mother. He’s a strong little fella.’
I laid him on his mother’s breast. That was a beautiful moment. It always is. Tender. As old as the world itself. As new as the dawn. And she moved his little face to her breast, and he suckled there, and she held him and stroked his head. He was born, this baby. He was oK. He was well. And his mother too seemed fine. And even the husband was smiling now: relief, as well as joy, etched into his tired face. What a place for a baby to be born. What a couple.
Then she turned to me, the mother. ‘His name is Jesus,’ she said and smiled at me.
Well, I thought that was the end of it and I could get to bed myself. As the girl slept, and as the child slept too, the husband picked him up and laid him in the clean straw in the manger. I told him that he should get some sleep as well. But I knew he wouldn’t. His part had come, and he was happy to watch and wait. So now I’m back here, watching and waiting for myself. You see, I can’t sleep. This birth and this odd couple have touched my heart. The inn is quiet. Everyone else is asleep. But I’m sitting here awake.
The fire has nearly gone out. There are a few embers just struggling to stay alight, fluttering and flashing but with nothing to feed on. If I get a few sticks and gently breathe upon them the fire will return. But not forever.
I don’t know where these thoughts have come from. this fire burning low. A new fire kindled. Warmth, security, heat and light. I need them so much, and yet as I turn over the dying embers of my life – because that’s how it seems to me, that’s what I’m thinking about, all the beautiful things that are lost to me, all the hopes and dreams that have died in me – in the end, it will all go cold and expire. Where is the fire and where is the light that will burn forever, radiant and unconsuming?
Now there is a commotion outside. A lot of noise. Probably some drunks. I open the door a fraction. It looks like the shepherds from the fields above Bethlehem. They are little more than vagrants. What mischief have they been up to? And have they been in there? Disturbing the baby? And what is it they are shouting about? A king born in Bethlehem? Peace to the world?
Then they are gone. Silence again. The emptiness of the night; and on the horizon the unhurried beginning of a new day as the approaching sunlight leaches slowly into the darkness.
What is going on? What happened here this night? Who is this child that has visited me? Whose coming into the world have I shared? There is a strange and ominous foreboding upon me. Also a spark of pure, uncompromised joy. Who isn’t moved to wonder at the sight of a newborn child?
I turn back into the room. The fire is suddenly roaring. I watch the flames dance in the hearth. What has been kindled here?
Questions
- Which person in the story did you most relate to?
- What surprised, shocked or delighted you the most?
- Has this changed your understanding of the Christmas story?