Hey everybody! I just wanted to say that I've based some of this on the movie about this, The Nativity Story, just because it gives more details on everyday life than the story does. I hope I didn't offend anyone with this story. If I did, please PM me and tell me what you think is offensive, and I'll do my best to change it. Well, hope you like it! (And if you do--and even if you don't--leave a review, please. I really want to know how I'm doing!)Oh yeah, do you guys think that this is in the right category? Another thing(sorry this part is so long), I know it's short, but this is a really hard story to write, so be nice about the length, please!!!javascript:emoticon(':(')
Today I went around through the village, selling some of the loaves my mother had made. I had been expecting people to be rude and perhaps cruel because of my physical state, but I admit I was a little shocked, and most certainly hurt.
Marelda, a woman I have known since I was but a child--though I am practically a child still, even now--spoke nothing to me. She handed me the money, and then made a point of not touching my skin when I handed her her purchase. But I must be strong: I want to prove myself worthy to my Lord. I want Him to know that I will do my best with the task He has given me.
Also, I passed my betrothed today. I can tell that he is still getting used to the idea of his betrothed already being with child, but he takes strength from what the messenger told him. Together, we depend on our Lord.
My parents are still rather cold. My mother is softening, I can tell--she is constantly giving me advice on how to ease my pains, and which herbs to take when I am ill--but still, she is distant. She speaks to me as one would speak to a neighbor that you do not know well: you are polite, and helpful sometimes, but not as cheerful and warm as you would be to a family member. I know that because my betrothed has said that the child is his, they are having a hard time in their social circle. My mother's friends cannot believe that their friend's child has grown to be a child that a mother must be ashamed of. I do not pay attention to these people, but it grieves me that my mother wouldn't believe me when I told her of the messenger and what he spoke to me.
My father, I think, believes my story about the messenger a little bit more than my mother. He didn't seem quite as scandalized as my mother did when I told them. Still, he is too afraid of my mother to encourage me or say outright that he believes me, so I am alone--except, of course, for my Lord.
