Hopeless?
written by: Andy Houstoun
The night smelled of dust and smoke. Roman patrols passed by with helmets glinting under torchlight. Voices barked. They said they had come to restore order and peace. But peace, I learned, was their word for control.
When Joseph and I arrived, people filled the streets, heads bowed, lips tight, tired children crying. The decree had gone out from Caesar that every man must return to his own town to be counted. Counted, like livestock. Even as I felt the child move within me, soldiers shouted at the weary, and demonstrated dominance with a crack of whips. The world, it seemed, belonged to those with swords.
Every door we knocked on turned us away. We passed inns filled with men talking of rebellion and the latest crucifixions. Strangers avoided our eyes, and the air hung with the smell of sweat, manure, and desperation.
***
He now lays in my arms, small and still, his breath a whisper against my warm skin. Around us, the stable trembles with quiet life – the snort of a donkey, the sigh of an ox. Lantern light flickers along the rough walls.
I look down at the baby I’ve been nurturing inside me, and the world around us fades. Rome may crush us with its iron heel and its banners over Jerusalem, but here, in this forgotten place, I hold something precious, beyond their reach.
Joseph kneels beside me, his hands trembling as he reaches for the child, his eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
The wind outside carries sounds from nearby hills – sheep, a barking dog. Footsteps.
Joseph glances at me, and holds the baby close.
The steps come closer, hurried and uneven.
The door creaks, and figures fill the threshold. Sheep bleat outside. Shepherds?
They shuffle in, pushing each other with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. One looks up and whispers a prayer. Another stares with his mouth open.
They drop to their knees before we speak.
A young boy, clutches his staff so tightly his knuckles shine in the light of the lantern. “Angels,” he whispered. “We saw them. Lighting up the sky.”
His words shiver through me. Angels, for shepherds, the lowly and forgotten. I look at my son, his tiny hands curled like petals around my finger.
The shepherds remain quiet, as though afraid to breathe, and outside, the first light of dawn creeps over the hills. I feel something; not the might of Rome and the fear that haunts every street, but a stillness deeper than sorrow.
And in this moment, I understand: the night has given birth not only to a child, but to hope.
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