No room in the inn.

The last thing I heard before turning off my car last night to run through the bitter cold into the home where I would babysit two sweet boys was “… for there was no room for them in the inn…” I laughed at that, thinking, who doesn’t have room for Jesus? and proceeded to shiver my way up the driveway.

To their credit, those innkeepers didn’t know that the baby to be born would be the Son of the Almighty God.

That might have changed things a bit.

They probably would have cleaned every surface of their grubby little inn, kicked out some people who had a room, and given Mary every comfort in the world to be had during childbirth.  They would have apologized over and over about how they wished they had finer swaddling clothes and that they wished they’d had more notice of his arrival.

To my discredit, I know who Jesus is, and sometimes I don’t have room for him.   I don’t offer him my finest some days, and Lord knows the place where He resides could use a deep cleaning.

I know Jesus, and yet I don’t respond appropriately?  What is missing here?

That’s a question that I can only answer with the fact that on those days where Jesus gets my best, the love and honor and gratitude I have for what He has done for me drives me to act that way.

It’s something to ponder.

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