It was likely that the bed the infant Christ first laid in was an open wooden trough that animals normally fed from.
I know the first night I brought my son home from the hospital I cleaned every part of my apartment and was meticulous in my necessity for the best of the best.
Most people think the manger was found in a stable outside in the yard but culturally the animals were kept inside the house for warmth and ease of gaining their produce.
So Jesus wasn’t born in a back shed as such, more like a basement.
However his bed was still a feeding trough come wooden box.
I think we spend so much time trying to protect our children that we forget a instinct for survival was innately built in them.
I know it’s imperative that we provide a safe place for them to dwell but also your expectations for what is best for them will not often be met.
I sometimes stress a little over the size of our apartment and Max’s lack of backyard to roam free in, then I remember the manger.
I sometimes think that my floor is so dirty from a 9 month old trying to learn to feed himself, hoping he doesn’t eat something unsavory. I often question my domestic skills, then I remember the manger.
It’s not that I don’t want the best for my son, but sometimes the best is unrealistic and what he remembers will be the love and atmosphere of the house not its content.
Jesus was born into an unwed couples lives, in the middle of a chaotic census, in an animal laden stable and placed in a manger And he grew up to change the world forever.
My little mans cot, in his little room across the road from the ocean, placed in a family full of love is extravagant.
A Manger for a king.