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Good Morning, I went to Bethlehem, to do some Christmas shopping and see where this story begins. It’s a short ride on the bus from Jerusalem, 6 miles as the donkey rides, even less as the angel flies. Slouching on the back seat, I checked my shekels, calculated how much to spend, and who was worth what. At the check point we passed from one world to another and remembered that not every Christmas is crisp and even. In Nativity Square we found gold, and there was myrrh and the smell of burning frankincense; we could even buy it by the bag, at ‘a special price for you, Habibi.’ Long ago, the first Christmas market pitched its tent here and laid out its gifts. But now it’s no secret that Santa’s in town. The loudspeakers rock the cradle hard. I still couldn’t find the thing I was looking for; not that I fully knew what that was. Like lost Magi we asked the way to the manger. ‘Over there, friend.’ Just where the people enter at the small doorway in the wall. Mind your head. Bow to get in. It’s a narrow way. From Santa’s grotto, we dropped into the other cave. Where the Godchild was said to have been born. Although only God really knows exactly where it was and why it had to be here. In this not so little town, that might or might not have been David’s Royal City. It is hard to believe a God can be born anywhere, let alone here. That this is the cradle of The Good News. That God became human and instigated a plan to save the world. Chose the forms of a baby and bread to be his body. Can we really pin our hopes on this? It’s a big ask. A tall story. A hard sell. But some say that it is in this cold cell that the story begins. Later, in another street, not far from the flickering lights, beneath the wall that separates us, I bought three gifts from a refugee: a necklace of brass and string made by a blind girl not yet healed; olive oil to anoint the pan; and a book of recipes fit for a king. Then we crossed the line and went away from the manger, back through the barrier. Returning on the bus, on the back seat, sandwiched between two wise women and an old man, I asked ‘where are you from?’ ‘I was born in Bethlehem, the man says. ‘But my home is elsewhere.’ And with the lights twinkling behind us and the sun shining in the rear window we head home, reflecting on the possibility of impossible things.