Years ago, when we lived on the edge of Jerusalem, I used to pass the ruins of the Kathisma church every time I rode the bus into the city. There it stood, octagonal, unexpected, on the side of a major road, just beyond the gas station near our house: what remained of an abandoned church from the fifth century. Tradition held that Mary, pregnant, rested there on her way to Bethlehem with Joseph to give birth to Jesus, and so it became a major pilgrimage site in the Byzantine era. Sometimes, on days when I knew that there would be little traffic, I would wander over by myself and walk among the stones, imagining the pilgrims centuries ago stopping on their own walks to Bethlehem, drinking water from the spring, lighting candles in the now-collapsed chapels. A shepherd still sometimes herded his goats through the ruins. Flowers would crawl among the fallen pillars come springtime. Each time I visited, I would sit beside the rock – once so important that the entire church had been built around it and still, stubbornly, there – that is called Mary’s Seat. Pilgrims once believed that Mary had stopped, heavy with child, to rest on it from her exhaustion. There, I would pray.

A current resident of Bethlehem reflects on Advent.