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The nativity scene outside of the Amicable Congregational Church in Tiverton. (Photos by Bob Plain)
Reverend Bill Sterritt of the Amicable Congregational Church in Tiverton created one of the best Rhode Island holiday traditions.
He recast the story of the first Christmas in modern times. Baby Jesus is a girl named Hope, Mary is a teenage runaway from Connecticut and Joseph is an undocumented worker named Jose.
There are life-sized statues of Sterritt’s modern-day nativity characters in front of the church on Main Road in Tiverton – about halfway between Fall River and Little Compton along one of the prettier country roads in Rhode Island.
Here it is again – this year in its entirety – if you’d like to spend some time over the holidays reading a Rhode Islander’s take on if the first Christmas happened in today’s world.
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“We are looking for a couple with a newborn baby,” Ani said quietly. “We think the baby may have been born yesterday. Although, it might not be until tomorrow. We are a little uncertain. Have there been any births today?”
Not only did she have three strangely dressed foreigners standing before her, their question was almost equally as absurd as their presence. To mollify them, the nurse said there had been several births that day. When these three strangers asked to see the babies, the nurse, at first, said it was impossible. But since they were persistent and she began to lose her fear of them, she told them they would have to wait until an orderly was free to accompany them.
After about an hour they were escorted up to the maternity ward. Standing in front of the plate glass window and staring into the room with the small, individual baby beds, the three visitors were somewhat taken aback. They had not expected to see the babies separated from their mothers. Disappointed they realized that the child they were looking for, the family in Isma’il’s vision, would not be found in the hospital.
Thanking the orderly and the nurse, Ani, Appar, and Isma’il left the hospital feeling frustrated and lost. They had not gone ten feet before a young woman, bundled against the cold, ran into Appar. Both were surprised and stopped. The woman started to apologize, when she saw who was standing in front of her. She stopped in mid-sentence and then continued, “Who are you? What do you want?”
Without really thinking about what he was saying, Appar answered the woman’s question. “My name is Appar. I am travelling with my friends. We have come a long way and are looking for a couple with a newborn baby.”
Anna was speechless. What does this all mean?, she thought to herself. Regaining her composure, she said, “I have just come from a couple with a newborn. They are in an empty lot about a fifteen minute walk from here. I would take you there, but I am already late for work. Just go in this direction two blocks, turn left until you get to North Glenwood Avenue. They are one block down.” Having said this, Anna ran into the hospital.
Following the directions given them by Anna, 20 minutes later they saw the empty lot on North Glenwood. Despite the cold and the desolation of the surroundings, looking at the couple from a distance the three weary travellers felt a sense of serenity and peace emanating from this family huddled by the fire. Each one knew that this was who they were looking for. They had arrived.
Jose and Maura sensed their presence and watched as the three strangers approached. They had experienced many wonders in this night, but these visitors were, without a doubt, the most unexpected. As Ani knelt down to see the baby better, Isma’il spoke, “We have travelled far from eastern lands to see you. Each of us have had a vision about you and your child. We do not completely understand what this birth means, but each, in our own faith traditions, have seen that this child is of great importance. We have come to see the child, speak to you of our knowledge, and leave with you small tokens of our esteem.”
Having spoken, Isma’il reached into his white robes and pulled out a small pouch. Reaching into the bag he removed a roll of money. Looking at Jose and Maura Isma’il said, “Here is $1,000. Our great prophet Mohammed said, ‘If you go to bed with a full belly and your neighbor goes to bed with an empty stomach, you are not a Muslim.’ In this world, if you have food and money you are like a king. May this gift bring with it many blessings.”
Bowing, Isma’il handed Jose the money.
Appar, who had been leaning forward to better see the child, pulled the cord that had been holding a small bottle around his neck over his head. Handing the bottle to Jose, he said, “This bottle contains water taken from the River Ganges. In our faith tradition this water offers healing to those who suffer from illness. We believe the River Ganges water can dispel all sorrows that life can afflict on one. I fear the child will need this.”
Ani, who had been stroking the child’s cheek, reached into her robes and pulled out a piece of rolled up paper. Handing the scroll to Maura, Ani said, “This is a birth chart. I have studied the stars, planets and other important signs. They tell me that your child is destined for a task of great importance. In my faith tradition, this chart helps to guide us on our life’s journey. May it serve your child well.”
Appar, curiosity over-coming him, asked, “What is the child’s name?”
Jose and Maura replied, “Her name is Hope.”
There was a long silence as each one gathered near the fire thought about the appropriateness of this name. Ani was the first to break the silence. “The immigration agency in Chicago requested that we report in, telling them of our location and about the child. But I am afraid, if we tell them about you and the child, they will be inclined to take the child from you. Therefore, we will plan to return to our homes from another airport.”
Jose spoke first. “We, too, will be moving on in the morning, as we do not want to draw attention to ourselves or Hope. Thank you for your visit and your gifts. We will treasure them always. When Hope is of age, we will tell her of all that has happened this night.”
Then Maura said, “Thank you. Thank you for the gifts, but even more for your journey here. Your coming takes away some of the uncertainty of our situation and will strengthen our resolve to care for our child.”
After bowing deeply, Isma’il, Ani, and Appar walked back toward the hospital, hoping to catch a taxi back to the bus station. As Maura watched them leave, she reflected on the events of the last nine months, thanking God for the wondrous gifts of support and guidance, and pondering what the future held for Hope.
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“The most important person to come out of Illinois, in my opinion, was Abraham Lincoln. While he was not born there, he was raised there and was a resident of Springfield, when he was elected president. I will recommend that you receive a visa. However, since this is a most unusual request, a letter will be sent to the Chicago office telling them of your coming. They will probably want to talk with you, when you arrive,” he said.
Harold escorted them to the door.
“I know you feel a sense of urgency, but I cannot speed up the visa approval process. Your visas will be ready in six weeks.” Pleased they would be able to travel to the United States, but disappointed about the wait, they left the embassy.
During the next six weeks they made their travel plans. Even though the visas would have been available around December 17, the first flight to Chicago that was not full left December 23. Ani‟s charts said, of all the possible dates, December 24 and December 25 were the best. This would make the timing very difficult, but they trusted in the spirit that had led them to this point and booked the flight. As it turned out, their visas were not ready until December 20.
They arrived at New Delhi‟s Indira Gandhi International Airport on the evening of December 22. They wanted everything in order, so they would not miss their 5:50 a.m. flight the following day. Their Air India flight was uneventful, and, after almost 10 hours in the air, they landed in London from there they continued on to Chicago. The plane was on time, landing at 2:30 p.m. – and it was still December 23.
Leaving the plane, they joined the long line waiting to go through immigration. When they got to the immigration agent, she scanned their passport and waited. After several minutes, the agent looked at them closely and said they would have to meet with the director.
There had been a snafu and their paperwork had not arrived, said the director, when the three were seated in his office. They would have to wait in the airport detention area until the letter arrived. Several officers from the airport security then ushered them away.
Isma‟il and Appar were placed together in a small cell with no windows and Ani was placed across the hall alone. It took all her meditative powers not to be overwhelmed by this situation. Being locked away like this brought back the horrors of her cruel 10-year confinement in the Chinese prisons in Tibet. Besides the person who brought them food and drinks, they saw no one the rest of the day.
The following morning they were escorted back to the director, who told them that the letter had arrived. But he still felt uneasy about their reason for traveling to the United States.
“While I have to let you into our country, I want you to keep in contact with our office. You say you will be going on to Springfield. Let us know when you arrive, and if you find the couple you are looking for. We would be interested,” he said.
After checking with airport information and exchanging some money, the three travelers took a cab to the Greyhound Bus station in downtown Chicago. To their disappointment they found they had missed the afternoon bus to Springfield. So they bought tickets and waited until evening for the next bus. They finally arrived shortly after midnight.
Stepping out and looking around it was evident that they had not arrived in downtown Springfield. Isma‟il‟s vision had been of a couple and a baby in the midst of a city. The fact that they bus station was out on the outskirts was another disappointment. The three stood in the cold, dark December night, strangers in a strange place, wondering where to go.
“We are close,” Ismael stated determinedly. “I can feel it.” The others nodded their agreement.
“In America, people usually go to a hospital for childbirth,” Ani thought out loud. “But in my vision I saw this couple outside, not in a building,” protested Isma’il.
“We have to start somewhere,” Appar stated matter-of-factly. “There is a taxi. Let’s go to the nearest hospital and ask about newborns.”
Realizing they had no other choice, the three travelers approached the only taxi at the bus station and asked to be taken to the local hospital. When the driver asked which one, they said the one closest to downtown.
Ten minutes later they were dropped off at the emergency room entrance of Memorial Medical Center. Going inside, they approached the admittance desk and Ani asked the nurse in charge if there had been any births that day.
Looking up from her chart writing the nurse froze, pen still on paper. Before her stood what must be a woman by the sound of her voice, although her appearance left that to question. The nurse saw a small, slight person with shaved head and long red robes; beside her stood two men, also in long robes. Without a word and somewhat anxious, she studied these most unusual people standing in front of her. After an uncomfortably long pause the nurse carefully asked, “What was that about births?”
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“Without a doubt we are joined together for a purpose,” said Ani. “I will study all my charts again. Perhaps with the information you have shared with me, I will be able to better understand what they are foretelling and what is expected of us. I have the feeling we should not waste any time. You two are surely very tired from your trip here. Get some rest. I will go back and study the charts.”
With that said all three stood up and left the tea room. Isma’il and Appar returned to the retreat center to rest. Ani headed to Library of Tibetan Works and Archives to consult the astrological and astronomical tables and charts. She wished she were back at the Tibetan Medical and Astrological Institute in Gangchen Kyishong, the center for the study of traditional Tibetan medicine. There would have been a greater depth of materials. She would just have to make do with what was here in McLeod Gunj.
The hours of study flew by. Ani had forgotten how much she had enjoyed her five years studying to become an astro-practitioner. Still this project was proving almost too difficult, even for Ani, who had a special talent for interpreting the signs. All her arranging and rearranging of numbers around stars and planets did nothing to lift the veil of secrecy. Just as she was about to give up, Ani remembered the new light she had seen in the northern sky recently. It had puzzled her, because she had never seen it before and because it stayed in a constant, stable position in relationship to the North Star.
Ani added this new object on the horizon to her calculations. Adjusting the charts accordingly, she began to read the results, and couldn’t believe what she saw. Bounding from her chair, quickly putting the charts and books back in their place, Ani left the library and ran as fast as she could back to Tushita Retreat Centre. Without even noticing that it was after midnight Ani began to pound on the guest room door. After what seemed like forever, Appar opened the door and Ani burst in.
“You won’t believe what I have found out!” she exclaimed. Standing and panting Ani looked into the bewildered faces of Isma’il and Appar.
Disappointed, but determined, they sat outside the embassy gate, filled out the form, and waited for the office to reopen. When the gates opened, they were ready. Appar lifted up his robe and ran ahead of the crowd to the visa office door. As the door opened, a voice said, “First!” and all three stared to enter. A gruff voice from a man in uniform followed with, “One at a time!”
Appar turned to the man who had spoken and said quietly, “We are traveling together.”
“I don‟t care,” the Marine said harshly. “The rule is one at a time, and so you will enter one at a time.”
Not wanting to make a scene, Ani and Isma‟il stepped back and waited. Appar walked to the desk in front of him. Sitting behind the desk dressed in western attire was a native of India. He looked up as Appar approached and raised one eyebrow with both an amused and bewildered look. He studied Appar for a full minute, looking him up and down, from his long, stringy, unkempt hair and beard, to his tattered, faded yellow robe with a small bottle around his neck, to his bare feet.
Appar waited. Finally the man spoke, “A sannyasin? By all appearances from southern India, I would say. You are here seeking a visa? I know your devotion is to wander, but is not the United States a bit too far? You supposedly renounced all the material goods of this world. How do you plan to pay for your travel?”
“I travel with friends,” Appar said, pointing to Isma‟il and Ani. “They are financing my trip.” The clerk looked back at the two standing in the doorway.
“Wait a minute. A sannyasin from south India in the company of an African Muslim and a Tibetian Buddhist nun. What are you doing in the north? Why do you wish to go to the United States?”
Uncertain of exactly how to explain their mission, Appar replied, “We are following a vision. We feel there is something of great importance in or near Chicago. And time is of the essence.”
“Not so quick, friend,” the clerk said haughtily. “These things take time and this is a most unusual group. We will have to do a background check. Leave your applications with me and come back in a week.”
Frustrated, the three handed the clerk their forms and left. They had been given and appointment for an interview the next week, so they would not have to wait in line again.
The week passed slowly. They wandered the streets of Delhi, looking at the sights of India‟s capital, but their thoughts were filled with the journey that lay before them. When the time for the appointment came, they arrived early, sitting on the hard, wooden chairs outside the visa office. Their appointment was for 9:30 a.m., but it was well pat 10 before they were called into the office.
The official behind the desk, an American, welcomed them, said his name was Harold, and apologized for the delay. After studying the paperwork, he looked up and considered the trio.
“This is a most unusual request, from a most unusual group travel ling together. Our background check on all three of you came back negative. Our relations with the Sudan are not favourable.” He paused, then continued, “I don‟t recall ever receiving a visa request from an Indian sadhu.
And you, Ms. Rinpoche, according to our reports, have gone through much in your lifetime. Only your request for a visa has been cleared without question.”
Harold asked them for more information about their relationship to one another and about the vision that was leading them to the United States. Isma‟il, Appar and Ani answered all his questions openly and honestly.
Closing out his interview Harold said, “It is a curious mission, but I see no danger to my country in your traveling there. In fact, listening to what you have said, I would say what you are looking for is not in Chicago.
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Following the path through the forest from the Shugseb Nunnery to the center of McLeod Gunj, Ani Rinpoche hardly noticed the incline or the smell of the pines or the beautiful rhododendron. Even the view of the Dhauladhar range and the Kangra Valley below failed to catch her attention.
She was in a hurry.
Ever since she had gotten Isma’il’s letter she knew something new and exciting was unfolding. She had read it in the stars and the alignment of the planets. Even the animal signs, numbers and spirits seemed to point to something new, but she was unable to decipher the meaning. What was certain was the great excitement and urgency intimated in Isma’il’s letter.
Without even noticing Ani passed the Om Restaurant and turned up the road, heading to where the bus from Kotwali Bazaar would drop off its passengers. She arrived at the bus stop a bit late, but the bus was rarely on time. There really was no telling how late the bus might be, so Ani leaned against the wall of a local handicrafts shop and waited. With eyes closed Ani relaxed, allowing the bustling of people and the aroma of the shops to engulf her, and, just for a moment, she had the strong feeling of being back in Tibet.
No sooner had the feeling filled her, when all the horrors of her last years in Tibet, in prison, caused her to tense up with anxiety and fear.
Opening her eyes to escape the unwanted nightmare Ani saw to her great delight the bus turning the corner and heading toward her. As usual the bus was full. In addition to the many Tibetans on the bus living in exile in Dharamsala, Ani was always surprised by the number of tourists who came from around the world to see the Dalai Lama and to learn about their ancient faith tradition. She enjoyed the diversity, but was continually disappointed that the publicity surrounding the Dalai Lama seemed to have no effect on the Chinese government’s treatment of her people.
As the bus came to a halt, Ani scanned the crowd disembarking. Suddenly, he was there, standing in front of her. Isma’il Ahmad al-Azhar. He seemed even taller than she had remembered. His long white robe in combination with the white kufi on his head added to his elegant, almost royal, stature. His dark, almost black, face with the traditional tribal scars seemed much more worn and drawn than it had been when they first met four years earlier. But his eyes still shone bright with wisdom and joy.
“Ani-la!” exclaimed Isma’il, smiling a broad smile and bowing deep. Her eyes followed him fondly. Standing tall once more, he said, ” It is so good to see you again. I hope you are well.” As he continued to speak, Isma’il stepped aside, saying with a smile, ” Ani-la, you remember Appar, do you not?”
Ani could not believe her eyes. Isma’il’s coming was hard to grasp, but to see Appar as well was almost too much. But there he was, still wearing his old, worn robes and long, unkempt hair. “Welcome, Brother Appar,” she said, and then asked, “But how is it that your wanderings have brought you back here to Little Lhasa? Have you renounced renouncing?” They both smiled and bowed.
“It was the will of Allah,” stated Isma’il firmly, but with joy. “I saw him at the train station in Jullundur on my way here. He claims to have been waiting for me.”
“I am, of course, over-joyed to see you both,” Ani said. “Come, let us go to the guest house. The weather has been exceptional for late October and the walk will do us good. When we arrive, we can have some tea and you, Isma’il, can tell us what is of such great importance that you came all the way from Sudan to see me.”
‘Things have not been good in my country’
Isma’il picked up his small bag and the three of them began strolling toward Tushita Retreat Centre where Ani had reserved a room for Isma’il. On the way Isma’il told them what had happened since they had last seen each other.
“Things have not been good in my country. The civil war continues to destroy us through its never-ending violence. The Christians in the south are using violence indiscriminately. They have found a strong ally in the West, who has been using its economic might to render us poverty stricken. My brother Muslims also grow more vicious, while hiding behind the shadow of their supposed faith. How can either side be moved toward peace, when both have a knife at their throats? I feel more than ever that my Sufi tradition is needed in my country. But no one wants to hear about meditation and the inner life, about true peace, when guns are so readily available and hatred so strong.”
Ani and Appar listened in silence. Both knew first hand the destructiveness and horror of violence. They had heard the news of the escalating violence in Sudan and thought often of their friend Isma’il. The silence was broken as Ani pointed out that they had arrived at the Retreat Centre.
“Let us go in and then we can continue our conversation over tea,” Ani suggested.
After the arrangements had been made for Appar to share a room with Isma’il, they went into a small tea room next to the retreat center. When the tea was served, Isma’il continued his story.
“About three months ago I felt a strong voice, calling me to fast and pray. Leaving my home I went out to an isolated cave. On the third night of prayer and fasting a vision came to me. I saw a couple and their child. It was dark and they were huddled together, sharing warmth, protecting one another from the cold. I knew at once that Allah was with them, that they embodied the hopes and dreams of all humanity, and that they embodied all the pain and sorrow that keep hopes and dreams at a distance.
“As I continued to pray, I felt deep within me – I don’t know why, but I felt it strongly – that I was to return to you, Ani-la. Meeting Appar on the way was not a coincidence. I don’t know yet why we are to be together, but our gathering here is the will of Allah, of that I am certain.”
When Isma’il finished there was a deep silence. Appar and Ani both knew the truth of Isma’il’s words. They too had felt the pull of newness and gathering.
Ani broke the silence first. “I had seen there was something new in the stars and in the strange alignment of planets. I did not understand it, but your letter seemed to be related to what I was seeing in my charts.”
Nodding in agreement, Appar spoke. “While lost in a deep meditation, I was shown a strange path. It appeared to be a completely new pilgrimage. Standing at the beginning of the path had been you, Isma’il. Given what you have said, my image came to me about the same time as yours. I was in southern India at the time. I immediately stood up and headed north, allowing Shiva to guide me. When I arrived in Jullundur, I understood that I was to wait for you.”
“We are together now,” Isma’il said matter-of-factly. “What we must yet discern is why we are together. I continue to be haunted by the vision of this couple and their baby. Other than the fact that they are from the West, I know nothing.”
Appar spoke. “The strangeness of the path I saw was that it ended in total darkness, but there seemed to be light and something else on the other side of the darkness.”
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This had not been a particularly busy night at Memorial Medical Center, but it seemed as if Anna Schaeffer had been on the go all night. She had just finished mopping up a patient’s blood and vomit around an emergency room bed and changed the sheets. Now Anna was hoping she could take a short break.
Getting used to the night shift had been a big adjustment. Originally she had agreed to take the shift because the fifty cents an hour higher pay looked very good. It also meant she could avoid paying for a baby sitter, since the children now slept through the night and a neighbor was willing to look in on them. Still, at $9 an hour she was having trouble making ends meet.
Just off the emergency room was a consultation room; a quiet spot where doctors and nurses could meet with a patient’s family. It was here that Anna sought a place to sit in the dark early morning hours. She had no more than sat down when she heard a gentle voice say, “Hello, Anna.” Anna stood and turned toward the voice. When she saw who it was her mouth dropped open in amazement. She was rendered speechless.
“There is no reason to be afraid, Anna. I see that you remember me.”
Remember? Anna thought to herself. How could I forget? After all it was Gabe who had come to her in her darkest hour. It had been Gabe who gave her the strength and determination to survive, to start a new life – to be reborn. His sudden appearance brought back a flood of painful memories. Anna fell back into her seat, the memories and emotions overwhelming her.
How awful it had been. Growing up Anna just assumed that it was a parent’s job to punish children for being bad. As a small child, Anna had been spanked for wetting her bed or slapped if her parents thought she was too loud. There was the time all her sheets, blankets and pillows were tossed out the window from their second story apartment into the pouring rain, because she had not made her bed. As she got older her father’s spankings became more like beatings.
When she was 14 and a freshman in high school, she met Jude, an 18-year-old senior. He had taken an interest in her, listening to her troubles, offering his support. Jude seemed to be the answer to her prayers and she latched on to him, blind to warning signs of trouble – too much alcohol and a quick temper. But she was in love and her father’s abuse had dulled her instincts.
Anna was 16 when she became pregnant. With her parents’ permission she and Jude got married. Shortly after their first child was born, Anna was pregnant again. With the pressure of having a wife and children, Jude’s quick temper picked up speed and he began to lash out at his wife and children. Anna was caught again. Where could she turn? Her parents were glad to have her gone and Jude’s family, she had since found out, had a history of abuse and didn’t understand Anna’s problem.
Several times Anna had gone to the local women’s shelter only to weaken and return to Jude. One evening Jude had been in an especially foul mood. He had come home drunk and began to beat the baby for crying. That is when Anna walked out of the apartment with both children never to return.
As she walked down the street, uncertain about where to go and feeling completely lost and alone, she was approached by a tall African-American man dressed in black. It had been Gabe. Gabe’s reassuring words, “Fear not,” and his gentle manner calmed her initial fear. It was Gabe who directed her to a good shelter. The shelter gave her great support, took care of the legal paper work for separation from her husband, and provided the initial counselling that she needed. Her counsellor encouraged her to move away and start life anew, which is how she had ended up in Springfield, took the training to be a Certified Nurse Assistant, and began working at Memorial six months ago.
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Wiping the tears from his eyes, David finally spoke. “It’s good to see you. What can I do for you?” Somehow David knew it would do no good to ask how Gabe had found him, so he let that question go unspoken.
Smiling, Gabe said, “I need your help, David. I am sure you saw that couple in the vacant lot just a couple of blocks away. The woman has just given birth and they could use some assistance.”
“What do you want me to do, Gabe? I have very little money, I can afford only my one small room, and I am not supposed to have guests overnight,” David replied. If the truth be told, David really didn’t want to get involved or be burdened with responsibilities. Who knew what this couple would want or demand.
“David, this is a great couple and a child to die for. The miracle of birth is a power that can light up any darkness. Just stop by and say hello. You know, a kind word and a smile are also gifts we can give. I know you will do the right thing.”
And with those words, Gabe turned, walking out of the store and into the night.
“What am I going to do?” David thought to himself. But just as quickly came the reply, “What else can I do?” And with that he called out to Jack, the security guard, telling him he had to run an errand for a friend and would be back soon. Just as he was about to leave, David had a thought.
He went back to where he had been stocking the shelf and grabbed a bag of disposable diapers. After going to the cash register and paying for the diapers, he picked up a couple of flattened cardboard boxes. With the cardboard boxes under one arm and diapers in hand, David walked through the door. Spotting a shopping cart on the sidewalk, he place the boxes on the bottom of the cart, threw the diapers in on top, and pushed it in front of him in the direction of the vacant lot.
Jose heard the shopping cart’s wheels long before he could see it. As the sound came nearer, Jose stood to see what it might mean. He watched closely as the cart and the man pushing it continued in their direction. Jose and Maura stared wordless as the man and cart halted in front of them. They did not know what to think or say. Before them stood a man with long, dark, straight hair, pulled back in a ponytail. He wore a heavy plaid flannel shirt with a Walgreens vest over it, blue jeans and boots. His face had the angular features, weathered skin and smooth shaven face of a Native American.
David spoke first. “Hi, my name is David. Gabe asked me to stop by and say hi.” He wasn’t sure why he had mentioned Gabe. It had just sort of slipped out.
A shudder went through both Jose and Maura when David spoke of Gabe. “Gabe?” Jose questioned. “A tall African-American? Dressed in black?” David nodded. “You know Gabe?” Maura continued.
David shrugged. “We had met before, and he just showed up at the store a little while ago. He told me I should stop by and say hello. Said you were a great couple, with a wonderful child. He thought you might like company. I brought a cart. Thought you might be able to use it as a crib. I put some cardboard in for insulation. Also thought these diapers might come in handy.”
“Thank you!” said Maura, warmly. “You are very kind. We welcome your visit.” “What’s the baby’s name?” David asked.
“Hope.” Jose replied.
It was as if the air had been knocked out of him. David stared from Jose to Maura to Hope. Hope. In this dark, cold, desolate place, in this miserable condition and yet they name their baby Hope. He looked again from Jose to Maura to Hope. And then David understood. He was touched in a way he could not explain by this place and this birth. He felt the love that overcame the darkness and the misery.
Shaking Jose and Maura’s hands good-bye, David returned to work filled with joy. He did not know completely what it all meant, but he knew that he had found Hope.
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After allowing time for his few words to sink in, the stranger continued. “My name is Gabe. I saw the birth and thought company might be welcome at a time like this. By the way, congratulations.” Gabe knew the fear he was facing. He had been judged too often by the color of his skin and not by his intentions. So he remained where he was and waited for a response.
Jose was upset by this unexpected visit. He had forgotten how public Hope’s birth had been and still he was incensed that someone would invade his privacy. He stood up and in a low, menacing, but fear-filled voice Jose asked, “Who are you? What do you want from us? We have no money. There is nothing that we have that you would want. Go away and leave us alone.”
Even before Jose had finished speaking Maura had reached out to gently pull him back down. Jose heard her soft voice saying, “It’s okay, Jose. I’m sure he means us no harm. Let him speak.”
The stranger’s face turned briefly to Maura with a smile that said thank you. Then he addressed them both. “As I said, my name is Gabe. I was not spying on you, yet I could not help but see your desperate situation. Hope is a most appropriate name for this child. She comes to you in the midst of darkness and distress. She comes bringing new life, new possibilities; indeed she comes bringing new hope into a world very much in need of hope. I desire only to encourage and support you in this your time of need.”
Having said this, Gabe reached inside his coat. Once again Jose sprang to his feet and reached for his knife, expecting the worse. Instead he was surprised to see the stranger’s hand emerge with several large briquettes of coal, which he threw into the burn barrel. Jose sat in bewilderment. Maura smiled, bemused, and said, “Thank you, Gabe.”
Gratefully accepting her words of thanks Gabe said, “On such a cold night I thought these might help to warm you a little bit and would last longer than the wood you have been having to scrounge for. You have a rough road in front of you, but God is with you. Continue to place your trust in God and you will be cared for. It is time for me to go, but I will send help. Remember, you are not alone. And, fear not.” With these final words, Gabe turned and disappeared into the darkness of the night.
No sooner had he left than Hope began to cry. In the suspense of the nocturnal visit both Jose and Maura had forgotten Hope. It was clear that she was hungry. Despite the cold, Maura opened her coat and blouse, undid the front of her bra, and brought Hope up to her breast to nurse. Jose placed his arm around Maura, as she nursed, and together they slid closer to the fire for warmth.
As Hope nursed, Maura and Jose sat in silence, their thoughts captured by Gabe’s visit and what it meant. Who was he? What did he mean by “rough road”, “God is with you” and “I will send help”? But strangely enough, both knew that their fear was gone.
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As they gazed at Hope, their daughter, Maura and Jose’s feeling of calm and assurance was dispelled as a shadow passed over them. The unexpected shadow brought their attention back to the present. Simultaneously their faces turned and looked up. Standing in front of them, both in the light and crowned by it, was the imposing figure of a man.
Before them stood an African-American man, easily six feet tall, wearing a long leather trench coat. On his head was a black knit hat, covering most of his forehead. At first glance there seemed to be a hardness to his face. Maybe it was the small scar on his right cheek, barely noticeable, but a little bit pink in the cold. He wore black leather gloves. His right hand was raised breast high with palm open, thumb bent. His coat was slightly open, so they could see that he wore a black turtle neck sweater. Around the neck of the sweater was a large, gold chain with a gold cross attached. His black cuffed dress slacks and black shoes were noticeable as they extended below the hem of his coat.
Jose’s instantaneous thought was defense. He was sure that no one big and black, standing in front of him in the middle of the night, could be up to any good. Jose had seen enough turf battles in his day to be leery of strangers. Jose’s was an automatic distrust built up over the years, fed more by rumor and stories, than by personal experience. Ever since his arrival in the States he had been warned by other Mexicans to avoid the unpredictable and often violent African-Americans. With fear running through his body, Jose began to stand, preparing to put himself between the stranger and Maura.
Maura had had few encounters with African-Americans, having grown up in a fairly wealthy area of Connecticut. For the most part those people could not afford to live in her town. Even if they could afford to live there financially, most African-Americans felt out of place, and unwanted, in such communities. So Maura’s initial reaction, upon seeing him, was to instinctively draw Hope closer to herself, attempting to protect her.
Before they could speak they heard the man, with his hand still raised, say, “Fear not.”
Jose heard the two words and almost allowed himself a sneer. Fear not? he questioned to himself. I find myself in a run-down part of Springfield, Illinois, and a stranger, a black man, tells me not to be afraid. Being afraid is what has kept me alive. Simply being approached by you, a stranger, is reason enough to be fearful.
Maura was confused by his words. But, as she studied him a bit more, she saw a kindness in his eyes that she had not expected. His words had sounded almost like a command, yet there resonated more in the baritone voice than just command. There was a kindness and a gentleness to be heard. There was also an air of confidence about him. Perhaps it was how he stood before them – so certain, so calm.
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The contractions were now less than a minute apart and each one seemed to be longer than the last. Jose let go of Maura’s hand and moved down to her feet. Gently spreading her legs wider, he checked to see how much she was dilated and if the baby’s head was close. The instant Jose had moved to look a light above him came on.
Glancing skyward he saw a street lamp he had not noticed before. As Jose moved Maura’s skirt higher, he could see the baby’s head just beginning to show.
Filled with excitement, Jose practically shouted, “Push, Maura, push. The baby is almost out.” She listened to Jose’s words of encouragement and trusted him. The pain had become so intense that Maura could hardly hear Jose, yet she pushed. She pushed, because not to push hurt even more. She pushed, trying to push the pain way. Breathing hard, unable to catch her breath, exhausted, Maura pushed. How long she pushed she did not know. It seemed like forever.
Jose reached for his undershirt and slid it between Maura’s legs. Suddenly the pain was gone. Maura saw Jose pick up his knife. Then she heard a cry; a baby’s fearful cry; her baby’s cry. Jose had cut the umbilical cord and tied it closed as best he could. Rapping the baby in his undershirt and shirt he handed the child to Maura.
“Be prepared,” Jose warned. “The placenta still has to come out. That can be very painful as well.” Not much later, Jose’s warning proved true. A wave of pain swept her body once again, as it began to push the after birth out. Pulling on the umbilical cord, Jose helped draw out the placenta and threw it into the fire. He then cleaned Maura up, as best he was able, covered her legs again, and helped her to sit up closer to the fire to keep her warm.
Maura sat with the baby in her arms. Jose knelt next to her, looking at the baby, prepared to help as needed. Both were exhausted. Both shivered in the cold. Both had just had the darkest day of their lives. Yet in this moment, with the light shining on the face of the child, a calm and reassuring feeling gently came over them both. Looking lovingly at one another they said together, “Her name is Hope.”
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When they left the hospital it was after eight in the evening. By the time they reached the shelter they had stayed at the previous night, it was full and the doors locked. They had wandered the streets looking for some shelter from the wind and the cold. As they passed a vacant lot, Maura could walk no further. Jose saw the burn barrel, some wood, and a door on the side of a building that might help to shelter Maura. They stopped and Jose built a fire in the barrel.
Once again Maura’s scream broke into Jose’s thoughts. The contractions were coming much closer together now. Jose helped Maura count through the pain, encouraged her to take a deep breath, and then he stood up. He knew that the baby would be born very quickly now. There was no time to look for help. Having made up his mind, Jose took off his coats, sweater, shirt and undershirt. He carefully folded the undershirt and shirt and laid them next to the burn barrel to keep them warm. He then put his sweater, sweatshirt, scarf, and coat back on.
Reaching into his pocket, Jose pulled out a large pocket knife. It had been given to him by his grandfather. He opened the knife and reached into the fire for a burning board. Laying the open blade on the burning wood Jose was careful to sterilize as much of the knife as he could. Thus prepared, he knelt again by Maura and held her hand. Watching this steady, careful preparation, Maura suddenly found comfort in Jose’s presence and compassion, despite the great discomfort of birth.
Maura knew, was most certain, that she was supposed to be with Jose. She would never forget the look on her cousin Beth’s face, when she told her that she was leaving with Jose. Nothing Beth or Zack could have said would have changed her mind. Being eighteen, her cousin could not legally stop her and, given how busy the business was at that time, Beth did not try.
So, after the cherries were all picked, she joined with Jose in the migratory life. Until today, she had never questioned the correctness of her decision. When the next wave of pain struck, Maura sucked in air deep and quick. Gripping Jose’s hand tight, clenching her teeth, and listening to him count, she waited for the pain to pass. She was beginning to develop a routine as the contractions came ever more frequently.
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“Jose!!” Maura’s scream was filled with all the fear, pain and uncertainty of childbirth. On this clear, starlit, wind chilled night, with her water already having broken, Maura was about to give birth.
Jose panicked as reality began to set in. It was becoming almost too much to bear. “This is crazy!” he thought. “How am I supposed to help deliver a baby – here, in this cold, in this filth?!”
He had not felt this alone and scared since he had first crossed the border so many years ago. His thoughts were racing now. Why had he agreed to let Maura accompany him? This wasn’t his child anyway. Visions? Virgin birth? Preposterous!
“Yet,” he said to himself, a calmness beginning to slow his heart rate, “Maura has always been honest with me. Her faith is real. Now is not a time to begin questioning.” In fact, Maura’s faith had renewed Jose’s own. Over time her gentle manner seemed to calm Jose’s quick temper. Her daily prayers were never intrusive, never for show, never judgmental.
In the months they had been together, Jose’s relationship to Maura had changed from protecting a needy woman to wonderment, almost awe, and even, as he thought about it now, to love. Yes, Jose had come to care for Maura very deeply and he knew now for certain, what was felt but had gone unspoken before, he would accept Maura’s child as his – if she would let him.
Maura screamed again. When the pain subsided, Maura looked up at Jose with fear in her eyes. “Jose,” she said, “I’m scared. It hurts so much. I didn’t know it was going to be this terrible. What am I going to do?!”
Jose knelt beside her and, as much to reassure himself as her, said, “You are going to have a baby. We are going to have a child. I am here with you and together, with God’s help, everything will be okay.” Then stroking her forehead, he continued to speak to her in a calm, reassuring voice, trying to get her to relax a little, telling her to breathe deeply and slowly.
Jose was anything but relaxed himself. It was no longer the coming birth that was bothering him. He was struggling to keep his anger under control. Just two hours ago they had left the hospital emergency room. They had waited over four hours to see a doctor. When they were finally taken to an examining room the doctor said that Maura was not yet dilated. She told them despite the first signs of labor it could be days before the child was born. They would have to leave and come back later. Jose began to argue with her, but Maura did not want to make a scene, so they left.
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The surge of uncontrolled water flow brought Maura’s attention back to the present. Flowing down her legs and into her boots was a sudden gush of water. She looked down, frightened, and then looked frantically at Jose. Seeing her eyes widen and look down, Jose had followed her gaze. This was not his first birth experience. When Jose had first come into the country, it was not unusual for migrant women to give birth in the camps. He had, on occasion, helped.
Steadying himself, he spoke quietly, “Maura, your water has broken. The womb is open and letting out the remaining water. The baby will come very soon.” After helping her dry off, Jose placed several layers of cardboard on the ground near the burn barrel and put some more wood on the fire. He then helped Maura lie on the cardboard, trying to make her as comfortable as possible.
With the initial shock over and Jose’s reassuring presence, Maura relaxed a little, remembering the vision she had experienced. She had been in her room, quietly studying the pictures on her wall. Most young women her age had posters of their movie idols or the latest music stars. Maura had a gallery of saints, new and old: St. Benedict, St. Francis of Assisi, Hildegarde of Bingen, Mother Teresa, and, surprisingly, Dom Camara of Brazil, Gandhi, and Martin Luther King, Jr.
Surrounded by these people of vision, piety, and strong faith, Maura would spend quiet time praying, something she did every day. On one unforgettable day last April Maura saw, had experienced, was overcome by a vision, a knowing. In an instant, she perceived, heard that she was pregnant. Although she could not really describe the vision, her feelings were still vivid. At first she was frightened, but then a miraculous calmness came over her and she knew everything was going to be okay. The reassurance was so over-powering that she knew she would accept this God-given gift of new life in her, no matter what the consequences. And there were consequences.
Disbelief and shock filled her parents’ faces when Maura told them of her miraculous pregnancy. They told her to tell no one, made an appointment with her pediatrician, and started looking for a competent psychiatrist. Maura was indeed pregnant and refused any of the medical alternatives her parents, friends, and religious leaders offered. Maura’s trust in her experience and her faith in God met the wall of disbelief unwaveringly.
Maura’s pregnancy and her impossible story of conception were extremely embarrassing to her family. They felt the staring eyes of ridicule every time they walked out of the house. Her parents would not let her join her classmates in the high school graduation ceremonies. When her pregnancy began to show, her family, uncertain, and distraught, sent her to visit her older cousin, Beth, in Traverse City, Michigan.
Beth and her husband, Zack, owned a large cherry orchard and canning company. They welcomed Maura, making her feel at home, as best they could, but she had come at a very busy time of the year. It was the middle of the cherry picking season, which meant, in part, organizing and caring for the many migrant workers. Maura tried to stay out of the way. In the evenings she loved to walk through the orchard, tasting the ripened cherries that had not fallen that day.
On one of her evening strolls through the trees she met Jose. For some strange reason she felt drawn to him. They talked. He promised to meet her the next evening. Maura trusted Jose and told him about her vision and her pregnancy. She felt him react to this strange tale like everyone else, at first. But then, Maura felt a change come over him. Jose took her hands in his, telling her he believed her. No one, in all these long months, had said that too her. It was then that Maura knew she would stay with Jose.
“JOSE!!” Maura’s scream was filled with all the fear, pain and uncertainty of childbirth. On this clear, starlit, wind chilled night Maura was about to give birth.
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18-year-old Maura stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb and trying to keep out of the cold wind’s icy grasp. Layered as she was, in long dress, sweater, coat, and blanket with newspaper wrapped around her boots for extra warmth, one might have missed the very large bulge in her middle.
Maura was, in fact, not only pregnant, but in the middle of labor. By anyone’s standards Maura had not been thought of as exceptional or heroic. But even in the face of this cold winter’s night and the desolation of this place, her certainty of decision did not waiver.
Trying to keep her mind off the sharp pains, the piercing cold, and the desolation of her surroundings, Maura thought about her parents’ large, warm house in East Windsor, Connecticut. Life had been good to her and she had always been appreciative of God’s gracious gifts. She was especially grateful for her family, who had nurtured her and given her the foundation in faith that defined who she was.
Looking back on her life now, Maura could understand her parents’ concern about her beliefs. She had always been different than other children. As a young child, she was not interested in jump rope or hide-and-seek, sidewalk chalk drawing or castles in the sandbox. She had just not been attracted to playing with other children. Instead Maura was drawn to the quiet of her room. She was a voracious reader, and read cover to cover the Bible she had gotten from the vacation Bible school she had attended when she was ten.
When she wasn’t reading, Maura would draw or play with her dolls. She loved to re-enact Bible stories or make up stories of miraculous healing. She would have her dolls argue, letting Solomon come and resolve the dispute. Or a doll would be lost under the bed, crying, and Maura would send kind Ruth over to comfort her. If she had been teased too much by her siblings or other children, because she seemed so peculiar, Maura would imagine Samson, or Deborah, bringing a strong and just revenge. But afterward she always felt a tinge of guilt for wishing the others harm. Her favorite person in the Bible was Hannah. Maura admired her faith; a faith so strong that after many years of having no children, God had blessed her with a child, Samuel.
Ahh! Ahh! Ahheeeee!” Maura had not meant to scream, but she had been caught off guard. The stabbing pain came quicker than expected, frightening her. Jose rushed to her side, holding her and feeling terribly helpless. As the pain began to subside, she slid down the door jamb and sat for a moment on the sill. The labor pains had taken Maura’s breath away. She had not known the pain would be this intense. But she could not comfortably sit long and, standing up, she moved slowly toward the fire to warm herself.
Maura hadn’t spent her whole life in her room. She enjoyed going to church. At first her parents were pleased by her willingness to go to Mass and C.C.D. They began to be a little uneasy, when she set up a prayer corner in her room. In the corner she had placed a small table with a candle, a crucifix, her rosary, and other small items that had importance to her. When she was given the Bible, it was lovingly placed on the table.
Maura appeared to change a little the summer her parents sent her to the Baptist Church’s two week vacation Bible school. Neighbors had invited Maura and her siblings to go. It seemed convenient to have the children occupied and supervised for ten mornings in the summer, so her parents agreed to let them go. Maura was attracted by the hymns and children’s songs. She even liked the “boring” children’s messages the minister gave during the opening ceremony. Most important, Maura had discovered a faith tradition different from her own and she was intrigued and fascinated by it.
By the time she was 12, Maura had not only worshipped at the Baptist Church, but she had also attended a Congregational Church, a Friends Meeting, a Pentecostal Church, and a synagogue. Maura’s parents were in awe of their daughter’s unusual interest in God and her strong, quiet faith, yet there was something troubling for them about the growing intensity and seriousness of her faith search. So, while her parents did not forbid her from exploring these different traditions, they in no way encouraged her.
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A quick gust of wind pushed the fire’s warmth back into the barrel, sending a spray of smoke and sparks heavenward. The wind’s icy cold pricked Jose’s cheeks and brought more tears to his eyes. He never had gotten use to the north’s snow and cold.
The night’s cold turned his thoughts to images of warm sunshine and gentle breezes. Even though the labor was backing breaking, working in California in the early fall, harvesting grapes for the vineyard owners, did have its advantages, weather-wise.
The trouble had begun for Jose in California many years past, during the grape picking season. Organizing of migrant workers was in the air, but everyone knew to speak publicly about it meant losing your job, or worse. And there were spies everywhere.
One had to be careful about whom one talked to. More than one person had lost their job, due to an indiscriminate conversation, while another earned an extra pay check. Jose understood how being organized would benefit himself and all the other workers. But he was not able to walk the fine line of diplomacy.
He had experienced too much injustice to wait patiently for justice. There was too much pent-up anger to keep calm in the face of deceit.
He was a valued worker, but had gotten a reputation for being confrontational, and too physical. Jose’s quick temper and union sympathies got him blacklisted in some places. But as an illegal alien, he could not to seek legal intervention for unfair labor practices. Even as the laws began to change and migrant workers’ lives were improving some, work became increasingly difficult to find. More and more produce was coming from foreign markets. Many farmers, especially in the Midwest, were switching to machine harvestable crops, such as soy beans and corn. In fact, the annual fall pumpkin harvest in this part of Illinois no longer existed. The migrant camps had closed last spring, along with the cannery.
And that is how he had ended up here in Springfield, Illinois, homeless and unemployed.
To add to his difficulties, he had, it seems, acquired a dependent. They had met while Jose was picking cherries just outside of Traverse City, Michigan. When they met she was pregnant and seemed to be in need of support. An inner voice had told Jose to reach out to her, but every other part of his body was saying, “Run! Don’t get involved!” Wisely, or foolishly, he listened to the voice. And here they were, at the end of December, with Maura about to deliver.
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Editor’s note: Check back here tomorrow for the third installment in Rev. Bill Sterritt’s modern adaptation of the nativity story. In tomorrow’s excerpt, we meet Maura and learn how this upper middle class teenager from Connecticut ended up pregnant and homeless in Illinois.
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Jose, carved with a chainsaw by Michael Higgins. (Photo by Bob Plain)
Jose stood in front of a large oil drum dropping pieces of wood onto the glowing embers and hoping his supply of wood would last the night. As the flames began to shoot up the light revealed his forehead, wrinkled with concern and his sad, tired eyes.
The large, callused hands and drawn face told of years of hard labor. The ragged clothes, layered against the cold, and stubble beard betrayed his present hard times.
Blowing into his hands and rubbing them together hard to warm them, he thought to himself, “How did it come to this? And where am I going?”
His thoughts drifted back to the warm, carefree days of his childhood. He smiled as he remembered his parents and the small village in Mexico in which he grew up. How beautiful the world appeared to him in those times. From his parents and grandparents he had learned the secrets of when to plant corn and beans, tomatoes and peppers; how to care for the farm animals; how to tend the grapevines.
As he reflected on those days, he understood how much a part of the earth he was. In a way it was as if he and the earth were one, and this awareness made him feel even closer to God, the Creator.
Then his mind touched that fateful winter day and suddenly his face darkened, his eyebrows knit even tighter together, and anger flashed in his eyes. The pain that shot through him had not lessened after all these years. He was only nine at the time, but he knew even then right from wrong, and what happened on that day was certainly wrong.
A man dressed in a fancy suit and accompanied by two large, armed men had driven up to Jose’s grandfather’s house in a government car and handed him a piece of paper. As his grandfather read the letter his eyes grew larger and rounder. Sensing that something was amiss, the family gathered round, fear gripping all. By the time his grandfather had finished reading his face had become dark red from rage. He turned to the man in the suit and told him to get off his property immediately. In a threatening tone, the man told Jose’s grandfather that he would be back and there was nothing that could be done about it.
When the men had gone, Jose learned that their land was being taken to make room for the expansion of the neighboring coffee plantation. The family “would be fairly compensated for their loss” the notice had said. “How does one fairly compensate’ for another’s livelihood?” Jose thought to himself. They, of course, were given practically nothing. And it seemed as if Jose had been rootless and on the move ever since.
Jose’s parents went first to Matamoros looking for work at one of the factories on the northern border, across from Brownsville, Texas. His father found a job in one of the tanneries. It was dirty work and the fumes made even Jose nauseous, when he waited near the factory for his father after work. The wages were so bad his mother went to work cleaning houses.
There was never enough money for food, even with both parents working. Poverty makes even the most preposterous rumors seem true. Everyone had heard how wealthy people could become, if they just went across the border to the United States. So when Jose turned twelve he left home to find work north of the border.
The sound of the police car’s siren broke into Jose’s reflections. He looked quickly around, frantically searching for an avenue of escape. The vacant lot had buildings on either side and a chain link fence at the back. Debris lay strewn about: old tires, empty bottles, a battered stove. The ground was so hard and desolate that even the weeds had struggled to find a place to grow. Jose’s pulse quieted as the siren’s wail faded into the distance.
Twenty-five years ago, crossing the border was not as difficult nor as dangerous; finding work, though, was. Jose eventually landed in Florida in the midst of orange groves. Here began his twenty-five year odyssey, following the growing season north to south, east to west and back again. He was on a tour of the United States that definitely was not listed in any tourist brochure. It was hard, back-breaking work; work that paid enough to stay, but not enough to leave. Over the years Jose began to see the inequities. He felt demeaned and used, but did not know, at first, how to fight back.
(Editor’s note: This post is part of a serialization of Rev. Bill Sterritt’s 26-page short story recasting the birth of Jesus in modern day America. For more about this project click here. Check back tomorrow for the next installment in the Amicable Nativity Story.)
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Bill Sterritt, the minister at Amicable Congregational Church, poses with the statues that star in his telling of the Christmas story.
The Amicable Congregational Church is keeping Christ in Christmas by recasting the messiah as a baby girl named Hope.
Minister Bill Sterritt remade the original Christmas story in modern times, and added an overtly-progressive theme to the tale of a special baby being born under less than ideal conditions.
The Biblical character of Joseph is represented by Jose, an out-of-work migrant worker in this country illegally. Mary is Maura, a pregnant teen who runs away from her home in Connecticut after being shunned for her unexplained pregnancy. The Angel Gabriel is a homeless black man named Gabe.
“Just Biblically speaking if you take the story they are on the road and can’t afford a room,” Sterritt told me when I stopped by on Friday afternoon. “If that isn’t being homeless, I don’t know what is. We have this vision of the Christmas story being warm and gentle. The manger was a feeding trough. It was a damp cave meant for cattle and sheep.”
He represents the magi with a Buddhist, a Muslim and a Hindu. The lead role is played by a girl named Hope.
“The Christmas story is one of hope,” he said. “Once that came to me, Jesus became a girl.”
The characters exist in two incarnations.
Passersby on Main Road know the wooden statue version of the characters that make up the nativity scene outside the church just south of Tiverton Four Corners. Sterritt commissioned local chainsaw artist Michael Higgins to make the figures for the church in 1999.
All seven statues in the Amicable Congregational Church’s nativity scene on Main Road near Tiverton Four Corners. (Photo by Bob Plain)
Before getting to work, Higgins wanted to know more about Sterritt’s vision and he asked him to write a story about it. The minister, who has been at the church for just shy of 25 years, obliged. Over the course of the next several holiday seasons, Sterritt would write down more of the story and Higgins would physically craft more of the figures from giant blocks of wood.
Sterritt delved so deep into his characters he ended up writing a 26-page remake of the original Christmas story – the birth of Jesus as if it happened in modern day Springfield, Illinois.
It’s an amazing tale, in its own right, that Sterritt adapts smoothly to fit with modern-day social ills. Through his characters, he explores hard times for the working class, immigration, alcoholism, spousal abuse and desperation. He even delves into the complicated politics of the Middle East.
Ultimately, all of these issues meet up in abandoned lot in run-down Illinois town with a dried up economy where a very special baby is born to a homeless couple.
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I’m pleased to say that Sterritt agreed to let RI Future republish his story in daily excerpts. Between now and Christmas, we’ll serialize his modern adaptation of the baby Jesus story, in the form of occasional blog posts starting later today.
I hope it honors Christmas in a way that reminds us that the less fortunate among us aren’t the least important among us. I also hope it proves an easy and convenient way to consume local, original, long-form creative writing during the busy holiday season.
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