My daughter has this advent calendar. It’s lovely.
(Her grandma made it. Apparently, grandma refuses to believe that I may not believe, so it’s all Jesus-y. Whatever.)
There’s not a lot of room left, we’re getting down to the last couple of days. When she hung today’s ornament, I did a quick count of what remains.
Here’s what’s left: another donkey, the manger, and the magic baby.
We were one short.
Joseph is missing.
The poor guy. I’m no bible expert, but to me, Joseph is the sixth toe on the foot that is the Christmas story. Kind of….expendable.
And then, I thought, “What if he’s not ‘missing’?”
Could you really blame Joseph for going out for a pack of smokes, and never coming back? Your chick comes home one day, says “I’m knocked up, and it’s not yours”. And when you question her on it, she’s all like “Oh no, I didn’t screw around on you! This baby belongs to GOD!”. So now she’s not just stepping out on you, she’s straight-up loco, too. None of your neighbors will look you in the eye; you’re history’s ultimate cuckold.
And fast-forward to your future. Jesus is a teenager, he’s coming home late, failing math, turning all the water into wine and getting drunk with his homies. You try to set him on the straight and narrow, and he’s all like, “Fuck you, Joseph! You’re not my real dad! I hate you!”. At a certain point, you gotta say, “Forget this! I’m outta here!”
It’s OK, Joseph. I’m not judging you. Come home when you’re ready.