Nativity 2020 by Eileen Padmore

 The emergency ambulance screamed through darkened streets over icy rain soaked surfaces. Directions had been vague .... a barn .... in a field. Through town now, final

squealing corner .... broken gate .... muddy track; siren shattering silence.

Skidded stop: hearts pumping painfully in the run to the barn .... intense blackness overhead lit by weirdly bright star.

'God help us,' breathed Zac as they peered inside, knocked back by the pungent smell of cattle. 'A born-on-arrival in this mess!' For there was the babe in a cattle feeding trough wrapped in Dad's grubby hoodie.

Teenage Mum looked vulnerable, exhausted – Dad shivering, shell shocked.

'What's your name, darling,' asked Liz? 'Maria, that's nice. Let's have a look at you.'

Crash! The wonky door swung open as a posse of dishevelled migrants flooded in. Employed by the farmer to pick his winter crop of sprouts for less than minimum wage, they surged forward on a confused tide of chatter ..... something about blinding lights, battalions of angels, surreal singing, a baby God born to save the world!

Whatever were they on, wondered Zac? And why the sheep? Need to protect this unfortunate duo. But then Jo took charge. With new dignity he placed the babe in Maria's arms and stood guard. The three formed a tableau in the stench of that dim barn, lit by some kind of inner glow that overcame the squalor.

Liz backed off. Weird. She didn't believe in God ... but something about this made you want to ....

Car engines, more visitors – now men in Eastern dress, genuflecting to the infant, offering exotic gifts. Best get them risk assessed before that unfortunate babe comes to grief thought Liz – battling to stay in professional mode.

The paramedics felt they'd landed in the middle of a pantomime. How would they begin to file a report back home? Nobody on earth would believe them. And the young parents were behaving as though they had expected it – like some kind of fulfilment ....

Visitors gone and paperwork completed, the return trip in the ambulance was reflective.

'I wonder why they refused medical care,' queried Liz? 'So other worldly and .... well ... like, Holy!'

'Get real! Just a couple of naive kids. Jewish ..... orthodox I guess ..... afraid of consequences.'

'Like Jesus in the Bible. Look out for King Herod on the warpath!'

'Wicked! But seriously, they need to watch their backs with this new anti-semitism thing. Synagogue done over with nazi slogans in red paint last week.'

What had it all been about? Angels, gold bars, spices, herbs, exotic perfume ..... embalming fluid? That was offensive. Why would you gift the newborn a substance symbolic of death?

But both Liz and Zac knew in the depths of their politically correct, armour protected, twenty-first century hearts that something extraordinary had taken place. Truth to tell they were desperate to know more. Each had a strange but persistent sense of a cosmic master plan that might even include them.

Eileen Padmore retired some time ago from heath care and academia with a vow to indulge in writing more creatively and less academically. Her background in Africa, Eire,

Northern Ireland (in the troubles) as well as inner city Birmingham and Leeds provides plenty of copy. She has had articles published by Woman Alive, Christian Writer and contributed to the popular ACW Lent book.

Eileen operates a dynamic prayer shawl ministry under the name of Tabitha. You can read about it here.