The River at Bethlehem

  

Krippe crib family w 3wisemen

Krippe crib family w 3wisemen (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The River at Bethlehem

“I’ve lost my bridge to the crib,” I say to hubby. The place is a mess with the Christmas decorations and empty boxes. I’m putting up the crib and I bought a lovely little bridge at a market in Nice when I was over there during the summer. I wanted to put it in the crib so that the three wise men could walk over it when they arrived at Bethlehem on the 6th of January. But I’d lost the bridge. One minute I had it in my hand and the next it was missing.

“Did you put my bridge somewhere,” I shout at hubby this time, because when I go into the sitting-room he’s there in the middle of the chaos with his feet tapping and  his headphones wrapped around his head listening to his music, trying to block out the noise I’ve been making. I’d dropped a bag of my artificial snow I had for the crib all over the carpet and I had to vacuum the place. I think it was when I went looking for the vacuum cleaner that I managed to put the bridge out of my hand somewhere.

“Not alone do I think you’ve lost the bridge,” says hubby irritated at the intrusion into his music world, “I think you’ve lost your marbles. What do you need a bridge in the crib for anyway?”

I explain that I need it to get the three wise men across the river to the crib on the 6th of January.

“What river?” he asks.

“I made a paper river for the bridge,” I smile happy with myself. I show him my paper river. “There’s not much point in having a bridge if you don’t have a river.” I say. “I made this and now I need the bridge and I can’t find it.”

“Darling,” he says.

As soon as he uses the word darling in that tone I know he’s going to tell me something that he thinks I don’t know. He has his head phones poised ready to put back on his head to indicate this is the end of the conversation and the search for the bridge. “Darling,” he repeats, “the three wise men trekked for miles and miles across a desert. You don’t need a bridge. There never was a river.”

“Well,” I say, storming out of the room, waving my paper river at him, “there’ll be one in a minute.”

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