Bethlehem 

Oh, little town of Bethlehem. Only three hundred people called Bethlehem 'home' when Joseph and the obviously pregnant Mary walked up the dusty road. The two, passing by Rachel's tomb as the sun sets low, ending the four-day journey from Nazareth. The golden sky lights up the fields once belonging to Boaz, where Ruth gleaned, an unfolding story leading to this promised moment. Bethlehem, the little town where oil dripped from a young boy’s head. The City of David. Rich history in such a little town. Rich history and then long periods of silence. Small, silent town until today, when Joseph and Mary walk through your gates and you step up again onto center stage. God has a plan, little Bethlehem, and in His plans, when His promises are involved, we are powerless. 

Often our roads lead us back. They lead us back to our own Bethlehem, where we didn’t know we were supposed to be until we arrived at just the right time, in just the right place, for just the right moment. 

Shame filled me as we drove away. Chased to our car by begging children, we drove away in a rush. They had tried to grab my purse, angry boys demanding money, pulling on my arms. I felt afraid, but I didn’t know why. The worst they would have done is take my bags of groceries, take my purse. Would that have been so bad? Hurrying our kids into the jeep and locking the doors, we pushed on the horn to warn the boys and then slowly took off just before they crawled onto the back of the vehicle. Behind me, in the rear-view mirror, I saw them shouting in the road. It was quiet in the car. None of us knew what to say. We had just run away from children. We had run away from the ones we hoped to help.

 Late that night, I stood by our window looking out at the dark, cold slum. What had I been afraid of? There were too many of them. I couldn't speak the language well. I didn't want to do the wrong thing. I had been afraid of the what if. So instead of trying to find a solution, I ran away. I couldn't shake the sight of the boys yelling in the street. I thought of the boys often, imagining the results of a better response. 

And months fell by the wayside. 
Until one night I opened a ger door and stepped into their world again. The ger was dimly lit by candlelight: no electricity and very little heat. As my eyes adjusted to the room, my heart took a giant leap at what sat before me. There they were. The faces I had not forgotten.


Earlier that day, we had received a call from a local government official. There was a family in dire need, seven children and one dying baby. Could we please go in to check on them? We had dressed warm for the night visit, for it was so cold outside. Up the hill from where I lived, and around just one short corner, was my Bethlehem. All that time, they were living there. How we managed to never bump into one another after that fearful getaway in my jeep, I will never know, but tonight we were back face to face. A different me, a humbled me, a learner, greeted them. 


I learned their parents were garbage pickers, and they were too. None of the children had ever attended school. All were illiterate. They were unregistered, nearly invisible to society. Because of this, they couldn’t get access to a doctor or electricity or solve even the simplest of life's problems. It was going to be a mess to try to help them. Entering into this story would be anything but simple.
"Do you remember me?" I asked the oldest boy, the one I last saw in my review mirror, wishing he would say no.

 “Yes." the seven-year-old replied.
"Yes, I do."


I went back in my mind, to the jeep for a moment, to a response I'd give anything to redo. And then I silently thanked God for this night, this full circle night, thanked Him for bringing me back to exactly where I needed to be.