My wife and I are not travelers or tourists, or vacationers or pleasure seekers of any kind.
We are of limited means but boundless hope because of a confluence of circumstances — both heavenly and terrestrial — concerning our recent journey, by foot and mule, to Bethlehem; where, in the course of our nighttime movement along a path lit by the luminescent purity of a northern star, we continue to reflect on the symbolism and literalness of our trip; an experience that remains uplifting, in whole, and disappointing — gravely upsetting — in part, because of the cruelty of the manager and staff of your inn.
By shunning us, and by ignoring the very obvious fact that my wife was in labor and going to give birth to a son in a matter of hours, your workers — and by extension, you and the patrons of your inn — are the antithesis of the hospitality your business claims to offer and the enemies of the comfort your establishment says it provides.
I ask you, sir, how could you deny space for a paying couple so visibly tired and so respectfully attired?
How could you expel us from your entrance, and so forcefully slam and lock your doorway?
How could you not at least help my wife — with the sweat raining from her brow like oversized droplets of anguish and pain, and with one hand placed across her belly and the other pressed against the wall (to maintain her balance) — while you could hear her cries become inconsolable wails of physical torture and her exhalations sound like the last breaths of a dying woman?
How could you treat us like animals by leaving us among animals, with my wife lying upon an earthen bed of soil and straw?
I will not reciprocate your malignity with malice of my own.
I will, however, avoid your inn.
I pray decent men and women will do likewise.