Noel: Christmas Retold

By Shannon Brooks

Noel: Christmas Retold--brings us back to the heart of Christmas through a trio of short stories.

In "The Child," Mary, a common peasant girl in captive Nazareth, is visited by an angel. After the encounter she is found to be pregnant out of wedlock. Will her child be accepted as the promised Messiah? Will he be shunned or worse?

In "Assigned," angels and demons clash, and high ranking guardians, Shamar and Natsar brace themselves for the most pivotal task they will be given the keeping of the one human who can save all of mankind.

In "Mercys Dream," from under a staircase, on a piece of cardboard, a despondent homeless man witnesses a very strange night, that begins when a young couple gets off a bus and is stranded on his abandoned side of town.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456799359

Shannon Brooks

While teaching at-risk teens in Los Angeles, Shannon Brooks quickly became known for using one of her favorite and most effective educational tools: storytelling. She currently lives in Sequim, Washington, where she cares for her grandmother, and continues to pursue her passion to challenge and to educate, now through writing.

Book preview

Contents

Acknowledgements

Dedication

The Child

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Assigned

Mercy’s Dream

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my family—my parents (Gary and Suzanne Brooks), my siblings, and my grandmother, (Claire Burnham)—for their constant encouragement and help throughout this whole project. I love each one of you!

Mom, thank you for your thought-provoking critiques and for finding time for me even in the midst of your many responsibilities. Jes, you have a way with a manuscript and very good ideas. Thank you! Dan, thanks for giving your technical and masculine point of view. Dad, thank you for answering my many random questions. Chris, thank you for sharing your teenager’s perspective. Grandma, thank you for the many times you so patiently looked up to find me sitting in your recliner with my nose in my laptop. I hope you enjoy the finished product. Tim and Becky, if we hadn’t been on such different parts of the globe, you probably would have been a part of this too. I miss you.

And Lord, I want to give you the biggest thanks of all. Where should I begin? Thank you for this opportunity, for every idea you gave me, for every word you helped me find, for every resource you provided for this adventure. I could go on and on, but most of all, thank you for being You, and for being everything to me. May this book bring you honor and may it bring many people closer to you.

Dedication

To those who have heard the story a hundred times, and to those who have never really heard it before.

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The Child

Chapter One

Shalom, Papa!

Mary called into the dusty haze that hovered over the field. The sun made her squint as she watched the form of her father straighten. He wiped the back of his arm across his forehead and looked in Mary’s direction. Mary thought she saw him nod to her. Then he bent down again and continued turning the soil.

Two of Mary’s brothers, both younger than she, also stopped their work. They shouted to her and waved their hands high above their heads—any excuse for a distraction. Mary would have waved back to them, but her hands were full. One held a bundle of reeds from the creek, the other balanced a pitcher of water on her shoulder. Mary’s father straightened himself again, and this time he looked toward the boys. The next moment, the boys returned to their work. Mary continued on her way as well.

As she walked, she looked out at the Galilean landscape. She knew every dip and roll in every direction. It was all beautiful to her. Several mounted soldiers stood at the crest of one of the low hills beyond the city, but their presence did not cause Mary any alarm. They generally left her people alone, as long as they paid their taxes and did not resist the Roman rule.

Mary’s eyes wandered to the fields and vegetable gardens surrounding her, and to the stone and mud brick houses interspersed among them. These homes marked the outskirts of Nazareth. This was where Mary and her family lived.

Several men, women, and children came and went, going about their business and lives. Mary greeted each one she passed. These were her neighbors, friends, acquaintances—people she had known all her life. One man in particular caught Mary’s attention. He was walking away from her, so his back was to her and he did not see her. She could watch him freely. He was carrying a length of freshly cut wood on his shoulder and he bounced slightly as he walked, as if the beam weighed very little. Mary wondered about him as she followed him with her eyes. She had wondered about him for many years now. For this was the man to whom she had been betrothed. The man disappeared between the houses, built closer together within the town itself. His home and shop were among those structures nearest to the little market and square. His name was Joseph.

Mary turned off the footpath and proceeded to her own doorstep. There she set down her grasses and opened the door. The aroma of rising barley dough greeted her. She breathed it in, smiled, and stepped into the house.

Some might have said Mary and her family had a hard, oppressed life, that they were forced to labor long hours and pay high tribute. But as far as she was concerned, they were blessed. The Almighty was good to them. They lived in their own homeland. They had bread to eat nearly every day, and on some days they had milk and berries and other good things as well. They had a sturdy little house. They had blankets and each other for warmth. And they were a good family. What more should a person want?

Mary added the water from her pitcher to the water that was already in a low basin on the floor. She then fetched the reeds she had laid by the door and placed them in the basin to soak. They would be used for basket-making later.

Next, Mary checked the barley dough. It was ready. She rolled it into several small balls and pressed them lightly onto the sides of a clay dish. She stirred the still glowing coals in the earthen oven, placed the dish in the oven over the coals, and then stood and looked about the house.

The humble abode was empty, a rare treat for Mary. Her mother and two youngest siblings, another brother and a sister, were away to the market for the day. A group of Jerusalem merchants were there. They came several times a year. Today was the merchants’ last day before they returned to Judea. They did not like to return with loaded donkeys, so today they could be bartered down the furthest for their remaining goods.

Mary found herself humming as she set about her next set of chores. The tune she sung was a bright one that she had always liked. As the little melody danced in the air, its words rolled through her mind. They were words of the great King David, the greatest ruler her people ever had. They were words of freedom, salvation, and hope. Mary always loved when this psalm was sung in the synagogue, with everyone’s voices raised together.

Your procession has come into view, O God, The procession of my God and King—into the sanctuary. In front are the singers, after them the musicians, With them are the maidens playing tambourines.

The sunlight that was so bright outside, only filtered dimly into the house through the windows set high in the walls. By this light, Mary scoured the dishes from the morning meal, tied back the curtain that separated the sleeping area from the rest of the house, shook out the bedding, folded it out of the way, and swept the floor.

Soon the bread was ready. With a cloth around her hand, Mary drew out the bowl from the oven, pulled the flat loaves from its sides and laid them one by one on the low table in the middle of the room. She could not help but smile in approval of their simple perfection. Her mother had taught her well.

Mary paused for a moment to breathe their fragrance, but then she stopped. She looked up. The room had suddenly become brighter. Mary turned and a chill rose in her, a chill brought on by the unfamiliar. Through the closed door, strange, harsh shafts of light shot in toward her, piercing fiercely through every single chink and crack that would let them enter. But these were not beams from the sun, which never rose or set on that side of the house. Instead, these beams vaguely resembled those made by a torch carried by the watchman who passed by at night; only these shafts were far more intense. They caught each and every speck of dust floating in their path and turned it to fire.

Mary stared. The door opened, and the blinding light burst in. She drew back,