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One of my favorite Christmas stories comes from Provence, in the south of France. Two hundred years ago, during the French Revolution, the new government prevented the churches from displaying their traditional life-size nativity scenes. As a result, many people began to display small nativity scenes in their own homes. Besides the traditional shepherds and wise men, the nativity figurines included all the villagers of Bethlehem, who are dressed, not in the robes of Bible times, but rather in the traditional clothing of the trades of the French countryside: the musician, the miller, the fisherman, the knife sharpener, and the rich farmer. Each one was portrayed on his way to the stable, bringing his own special gift to the Christ child. This nighttime procession of the villagers to see the Holy Family is the scene pictured in the French Christmas carol “Bring a Torch, Jeannette, Isabella!”[1]
The version of the story I will share today is narrated by an angel named Boufaréo, who speaks with an unmistakable accent from the south of France, where they pronounce their words in a musical way, often with a twang at the end. I will not attempt to mimic the accent, but here is what Boufaréo the angel said about that night:
I’m going to tell you how it all happened, because, after all, from where I was, it was me who had the best view of things. It was the night of December 24, and the wild west wind was blowing and all the people of Bethlehem went to bed early. And they pulled the covers over their heads so they didn’t have to listen to the wind howl. The west wind, which was a friend of the good Lord, had chased the clouds for thousands of miles, so that the sky would be all clean and all shining with stars for the birth of the little one. It was not a bad thought, but it brought the temperature right down. I only had my wings to cover me, and thought I was going to freeze to death. I hunkered down the best I could.
Finally, I saw them, the poor wretches. It was painful to watch. Saint Joseph walked in front, his beard shaken by the wind like a streamer. He tried to shield the holy Mother with his large shoulders. From time to time, he looked back and said:
“How are you doing, my beautiful one?”
“I can’t go on,” Mary replied.
“Keep it up just a little longer. Look, I see a cottage there, close by.”
“No one wants us,” said Mary despairingly.
“Well, maybe not the rich people, but, here, these are the poor. They will surely make a little place for us.”
Mary stumbled and reached out to Joseph, “Give me your arm.”
“Here, hold tight…” he said.
“Oh, how it pains! Aïe!” Mary cried.
“ Oh, aïe, aïe, aïe, aïe, aïe, aïe,” said Joseph, “what misery, oh, we are really in a fix. No money, no house, and a wife who is going to deliver in the middle of the night! And in such awful weather! Don’t be afraid … Wait, I’ll carry you.”
“Please forgive me for being so much trouble, Joseph,” said Mary.
“I’m sure it will all work out,” he replied. “But all the same, the good Lord, He is asking too much. When I agreed to marry you, I should have given Him my terms and conditions.”
“Do you regret it?” Mary asked, gently.
“No, but listen well, my beauty,” said Joseph. “Who am I? Me, a poor nobody. And the good Lord gave me the right to hold you by the hand, to carry you in my arms, you, the mother of His Little One.