Here’s a magnificent account of the Lord’s birth, full of light and emotion! The scene, transmitted by the Italian mystic Maria Valtorta, is so evocative that we find ourselves transported to the crib, moved and filled with wonder before the little Child-God, Prince of Peace, Master of Life!

Joyful preparation for the Birth

In Bethlehem, Mary and Joseph have taken refuge in a dark, cold and damp cave that serves as a stable for the animals. Joseph has built a meager fire and invites Mary to rest. Outside, it’s dark and silence fills their poor shelter.

Mary, seeing that Joseph’s head falls on his chest by the fire, as if thinking, thinks that fatigue has triumphed over his desire to stay awake. She smiles happily and kneels down, making less noise than a butterfly landing on a rose. With a happy smile on her face, she prays. She prays with her arms outstretched, palms to the sky, never looking tired of this awkward position. Then she prostrates herself, face down on the hay, in even deeper prayer.

When Joseph sees that the fire is almost dead and the stable is in near-darkness, he throws a few twigs to rekindle the fire, for the cold must be biting. Indeed, the cold of this peaceful winter’s night penetrates the ruins from all sides. Poor Joseph must be freezing, for he’s standing near the entrance. He puts his hands up to the flame and warms himself up a little. When the fire is well established, he turns around. He sees nothing, not even Mary’s white veil. He then stands up and slowly approaches:

« Aren’t you asleep, Mary? » he asks.
« I’m praying » Mary replied softly.
– Don’t you need anything?
– No, Joseph.
– Try to get some sleep, or at least some rest.
– I’ll try, but praying doesn’t tire me.
– Good night, Mary.
– Good night, Joseph. »

Joseph, not wanting to give in to sleep any longer, knelt by the fire and prayed, his face in his hands. Except for the sound of crackling wood and the donkey’s occasional stamp on the ground, nothing was heard.

Diving into the Beatific Light

A moonbeam penetrates a crack in the ceiling, like an immaterial silver blade on its way to Mary. As the moon rises, it lengthens and finally reaches her. There it is, on Mary’s praying head, shimmering white.

Mary raises her head as if summoned from Heaven. Oh, how beautiful it is here! Her head shines in the white moonlight, and a radiant smile transfigures her. What does she see? What does she hear? What does she feel? Only she could say what she saw, heard and felt at the dazzling moment of her maternity. All I can see is the light growing around her.

Her dark blue garment has now taken on the appearance of a heavenly, forget-me-not blue, her hands and face seem to turn bluish, as if placed under the fire of an immense, clear sapphire, the pure clarity of Paradise.

More and more light emanates from Mary’s body, absorbing that of the moon and seemingly drawing everything to her. From now on, she is the depositary of Light, the one who must give this Light to the world. And this beatific, irresistible, immeasurable, divine Light that is about to be given to us is announced by a dawn, a clarion call of light, a chorus of atoms of light that never stops growing like a tide and rising like incense…

The black, smoky vault, covered with cracks and cobwebs, now resembles that of a royal hall. Every stone is a block of silver, every crack an opaline brightness, every cobweb a precious canopy woven of silver and diamonds. The lower feeder, made of dark wood, has become a burnished block of silver. The walls are covered in brocade, where the whiteness of the silk disappears beneath an embroidery of raised pearls.

Resplendent Birth

The light grows ever brighter, and the eye cannot bear it. As if absorbed by a veil of incandescent light, the Virgin disappears… and the Mother emerges.

Yes: when the light becomes bearable for my eyes, I see Mary holding her newborn Son in her arms. He’s a chubby little pink baby, wriggling and struggling with his hands, small as a rosebud, and his toes, which would fit nicely in the heart of a rose. He wails in a trembling voice, exactly that of a newborn lamb, opening a mouth that looks like a wild strawberry.

He moves a head so blond you’d think it had no hair, a little head that his mother supports with the palm of her hand as she looks at her baby; she adores him, crying and laughing at the same time, and leans down to place a kiss, not on his innocent head, but in the middle of his chest, where his little heart beats – and that’s for us: where, one day, the wound will be. His Mother heals this wound in advance, with her immaculate kiss.

Overwhelmed by such Happiness

The ox, awakened by the light, rises with a clatter of hooves and roars, and the donkey turns his head and cackles. It was the light that woke them up, but I like to think that they too wanted to greet their Creator, on their own behalf and on behalf of all the animals.

Joseph, too, who had been praying, as if in ecstasy, with such intensity that he had isolated himself from everything around him, shakes himself. Between his fingers, which he covers with his face, he sees this strange light filtering through. Mary calls to him:

“Joseph, come.

He runs over and, before the spectacle, stops, as if struck by awe, and goes to fall to his knees where he stands. But Mary insists:

“Come, Joseph.

Holding the Child close to her heart with her right hand, Mary rises and moves towards Joseph, who hesitates, caught between the desire to come to her and the fear of being disrespectful.

As they stand next to each other, the couple look at each other, weeping with happiness.

“Come, let us offer Jesus to the Father” says Mary.

As Joseph kneels down, she, standing, raises her Child in her arms and says:

” Here I am. It is for him, my God, that I speak these words. Here I am to do your will. And with him, I, Mary, and Joseph, my husband. Here are your servants, Lord. May we always do your will, at all times and on every occasion, for your glory and out of love for you.”

Zeal of Love

Then Mary bends down, says, “Take him, Joseph” and offers him the child.

“Me? Mine? Oh no, I’m not worthy!“

Joseph is intimidated, shattered by the idea of having to touch God.

But Mary insists, smiling:

“You are worthy. No one is more worthy than you, and that’s why the Most High has chosen you. Take him, Joseph, and hold him while I fetch the swaddling clothes.”

So Joseph stretches out his arms and takes the little Child, who cries out from the cold. But once he has him in his arms, he abandons his original intention of keeping him away from him out of respect, and holds him close to his heart, bursting into tears:

“Oh, Lord! My God!“

Then he bends down to kiss the little feet and feels them freeze. Then he sits down on the floor, presses him against it and uses his brown coat and his hands to try to cover him, to warm him, to defend him against the night breeze.

He’d like to go next to the fire, but there’s a draught coming in through the door. So he goes and stands between the ox and the donkey, with his back to the door, leaning over the newborn to make a niche for him from his chest, the sides of which are a gray head with long ears and a big white muzzle with good wet eyes. Marie opened the trunk and pulled out some cloths.She went to the fire and warmed them. Now she walks over to Joseph and, with wonderful gentleness, wraps the Child in her arms. Joseph takes some hay, warms it by the fire, and places it in the ox’s manger. Mary places the Child there, like the most precious and delicate treasure, then covers Him with her blue mantle.

Joseph and Mary, bending over the manger, feel their hearts expand with infinite joy…