The night is soft and dark around me, my movements muted and fuzzy. I pull myself up and arch over the cradle, gathering my infant to my breast. I wrap my arm around his soft, warm head as he calms and begins to nurse. I close my eyes and lean my head back, half asleep in the faceless still of night. My body wanders into the memory of a still night in Bethlehem, hills ringing with the songs of angels, and a night sky strangely lit by a blazing star. I peek into a stable and find a manger. I see a young mother, spent from her labor, and a tiny babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes. I watch the mother, half asleep on the straw by the manger. She wakes at the baby’s cry and lifts him gently in her arms. She gazes at her child, unmoved by the sounds of the stable. Tiny, half-focused eyes center on her face and the child’s small fists still their hungry movements as the mother brings the infant to her breast, cradling his soft head in the crook of her arm.
