+The Mourning After+

I will be naked soon for the rending of my garments, hairless too. The women assure me grief softens with time. Not mine. The pain in my mother’s heart is as Job’s pottery shards. Never will the knife-edged fragments cease to cut me, from the inside out.

            The women grip my wrists, to keep my nails from my face.

            “You will be ugly.”

            What do I care? I have no need, no desire for beauty, for a husband. I have John now. My Jesus presented him to me and me to him, a parting gift. Dear John, the only one who did not flee—trembling, bleating, denying.

~~~~~~~

I sensed the greatness of my son from the very beginning, from the moment when I heard his first moist breath and mewling cry. A seemingly ordinary infant until you drew closer and felt the urge to be with, to listen to, to learn from. What? What is it a babe can know? Any other? Nothing. This one? Everything and more.

            Joseph had stood behind me in that place, in that moment.

            “It is . . . He is . . . as the angels said.”  

            I felt my thoughts and Joseph’s merge, run together like a river. My words came out into the night air with the silver mist of my breath.

            “This babe will change everything, everyone.”

            My consciousness withdrew from my husband’s as I felt a contraction, a wringing, in my womb. I had a vision of a grape press—ancient and of stone—pressing, crushing, seeming to destroy my son. I attempted to stand, failed. Bent at the waist, I forced my fists against my gut. A growl of a moan worked its way up and out of me. I shook my head, felt the over and over whip of wet hair in my eyes. My tears drenched the dung at my feet.

~~~

Every day as he grew into his destiny this was my prayer:

            “Not today, LORD, nor tomorrow. Let there be one more day, Master. He’s my precious boy child. Allow him another day to teach, to heal, to love. He has all of eternity to be with you. Please, afford me a few more . . .”

~~~~~~~

The women hover, their hands and fingers like insects close to my face. I swat and moan.

            “Leave. Me. Be.”

            I gaze toward the Temple Mount. “Take me, Abba, sooner than later. Today, please? I want to see him, touch him, kneel before him, one more time.”

            I consider the rope on the bucket in the well.

~~~~~~~

Elizabeth is on her way. She sent word. It will be a comfort to spend hours, no, days, mourning our sons. For a season they were the bright stars of this world. A season so brief before they were snatched by evil men for the sake of pride, power, pleasure even.

            We can starve together, Elizabeth and me, call it fasting. We have no appetites; they perished with our sons. Moses himself could bring manna and we would bow our heads, purse our lips, turn away.

            I will let Elizabeth hold me. Rather, I will cradle her fragile, diminished frame. Free her hair, comb its grayness with my fingers, murmur into the mass of it.

            “You pretend I am John. I will make believe you are my Jesus.”

            We have no need of husbands. It is no longer necessary to pretend we love them more than the fruit of our loins.

~~~~~~~

My Jesus never resembled me, did not have my eyes, the cleft in my chin. Even so, he belonged to me. I carried him in my inmost parts. His purity came through mine. No woman has ever, will ever again, do what I have done. My life will be the death of me.

            “He will save his people from their sins.” The angel told Joseph that.

            The most glorious purpose the world has ever known and yet, I hate it. My LORD knows and loves me still. My confession is the world’s victory. How can there still be fools? Have you not seen? Have you not heard?

            No, he was not beautiful other than to me. Most did not appreciate his not-of-this-world-ness. Only if you sat at his feet or knelt before him could you glimpse heaven’s light and then, only if your heart was at the perfect angle of understanding. The shalom of Yahweh—a greeting, a covenant, an overwhelming peace—would engulf you for all time when you were surrounded by the light that was Jesus. That, I will hold fast to that—light, shalom, Yeshua HaMashiach.

*Do You See What I See?*

Every night was the same. Mary slumbered until some time between the second and third watch. She would wake then lie wide-eyed until dawn. It had been this way ever since the great and terrible day of the angel. After his visitation, Mary found it difficult to close her eyes, to even blink. Every time she did, she watched not her life, but her son's death, pass before her vision.
            How many times each night did she question her divine appointment? She would move her lips but make no sound.
            "Oh, Sovereign Lord, why? Why did you choose me? Holy Father, I do not think I shall be able to bear it. Please, will you not take this lot from me?”
            Almost always, she felt her hair stir as a slight breeze sighed through the room where she lay. One night she thought she heard the wind speak: "I am.” She had turned onto her stomach, to be face down.
            "Forgive me, my Lord. Your will is perfect, and good. Let it be done to me according to what you have said."
            "You are a prophet, Mary," her cousin Elizabeth had said, "a prophetess. But do not tell the men. They would laugh at you, or yell. Scorn your youth, and your gender."
            "A prophet? I think not," Mary said. "Did not Joel, the son of Pethuel, write of our people having visions? I do not speak for the Lord. He merely shows me things."
            This was after Elizabeth had made a fuss over Mary's arrival. She had washed Mary’s feet herself instead of summoning a servant for the task. All the while she murmured things like, "How is it that the mother of my Lord should come to me?"
            Mary shook her head. "Elizabeth, stop," she said. "I am just a girl, your cousin, the one you see every year at Passover in Jerusalem. Now tell me, what it is like to feel your son move inside you?"
            Elizabeth took Mary's hands and placed them on either side of the tautness beneath her breasts. She glanced down, smiled.
            "Can you believe I possess a bust like this? At my age? Zechariah—"
            Elizabeth stopped when she saw Mary blush, bowed her head, spoke to her belly.
            "Son? Is my cousin, Mary, a prophetess?"
            Mary watched her right hand move. "He kicked me!"
            She knelt and rested her cheek on Elizabeth's swell. "Baby boy, is the child I carry the Son of the Most High God?"
            Mary sat back on her heels and rubbed her face. "That hurt!”
            She gulped and her eyes filled with tears. Elizabeth took her hands and pulled her to standing. She held Mary close and patted her back. Mary thought she could feel faint and gentle movements from inside Elizabeth's belly, as if the baby wanted to communicate to her with his tiny hands.
            "Shalom, cousin. Shalom," Elizabeth said. "Peace be with you. Remember what the angel said? You are highly favored among women. Does that not please you?"
            Mary pulled away, used her sleeve to dry her face.
            "It does, cousin, indeed it does. I am most grateful that my thoughts and deeds please our Lord, but—”

            Elizabeth shook her head. "But what? What could possibly dampen your joy?"
            Mary wrung her hands. "The angel—  He said God would give my son the throne of David."
            Elizabeth drew her breath in. "But that is good. David was a great man."
            Mary walked to the window and peered out. "King David was a man of war.”
            She sighed and glanced back over her shoulder. "Also, King David did not have the Romans to contend with. And . . ."
            Elizabeth crossed the room and stood behind Mary. She removed Mary's head covering and laid it over her arm, released the younger woman’s hair from its constraints and combed it with her fingers. She whispered into the long, dark waves.
            "And what?"
            Mary's inhale sounded frayed to Elizabeth. "And ever since the angel came, I see things, when I close my eyes."
            Elizabeth rested her hands on Mary's shoulders.
            "You see things. It is as I said. You have the gift."
            Mary spun to face Elizabeth, her face contorted. "No gift this, Elizabeth. I see death, suffering."
            Elizabeth gripped her throat. "For our people? God's chosen remnant?"
            Mary lowered her head. Tears fell from her chin to her garment.
            "No," she said. "Of my son, my baby boy, but grown. And no one, no not one, acts on his behalf."
            Elizabeth winced. "How do you bear it, dear one?"
            Mary turned back to the window and squinted across the distance.
            "Promises," she said. "The promises of our Lord: 'Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.'  That comforts, sometimes."
            Behind her, Elizabeth shook her head. "You are so young, and yet, a stronger woman than I.”
            The older woman slipped between Mary and the window. She gathered the young woman's hands in her own, arranged them on her girth again.
            "Tell me what you see."
            Mary shrank back, shook her head. Elizabeth nodded slowly, her eyes narrow. Mary closed hers, saw, shuddered. She opened her eyes wide, to stop the vision.
            Elizabeth's voice was low, almost a growl. "Tell me."
            "No.” The word was a gasp, a plea.
            Elizabeth cupped Mary's chin, lifted it so their eyes met. "I want to know."
            "You do not."
            "I need to, Mary."
            Mary shook her head. "You know not what you ask, cousin."
            "Tell me," Elizabeth said, "so I know how to pray."
            "You cannot pray away his destiny."
            Elizabeth tilted her head. "Can I not?"
            Mary's mouth fell open. Her eyes widened. "No, you cannot. Pray for his strength, and yours, and Zechariah's."
            Elizabeth's eyes glittered with tears. She ran two fingers down the side of Mary's face.
            "I see now," she said, "why He chose you. Now tell me."
            Mary squeezed her eyes shut. Sobs wracked her small frame but she spoke what she saw.
            "I see a king. And a young woman. She is very beautiful, lovely in form. She dances for him. She whispers in his ear. He smiles and then suddenly soldiers— The king sent them, for your son.” Mary twitched as her flesh crawled. She swallowed. "For his . . . head."
            Mary opened her eyes when she heard Elizabeth moan. There she was, on the floor, in a crumple. 

No Ordinary Joe

She is dead to me. I tried to speak the words. Instead I swallowed them, bitter as bile, moments after Mother delivered the news.

            “Sit,” she said when I entered the room for the midday meal. She pushed a cup across the table. More wine than water. “Drink.”

            Parched from the morning’s work and wood dust, I gulped the contents. Mother used her hip to nudge me over on the bench. Covered my hands with hers.

            “It is thickening, Joseph,” she said.

            My eyes narrowed. “What is?”

            Mother brushed my knuckles with her thumb. “Her waist,” she said. “Your Mary’s.”

            My Mary? At first I didn’t understand. Her waist? What? Then I knew. I coughed. Couldn’t stop. I clutched at my chest. Hacked. Tried to stand but the room seemed to tilt and take flight. My knees felt watery. My cup struck the floor with a clank. Rolled.

            Mother pounded my back several times. My eyes teared. She’d spoken so casually. How could she be calm? Who? Who had told her this thing?

            “I didn’t believe my sisters, so I searched for her, your Mary, in the market. When she embraced me, Joseph, I discovered . . . They were right.”

            I attempted speech. Failed. I summoned spit to wet my throat. Rasped out words.

            “Perhaps her cousin Elizabeth is gifted with food,” I said. “Mary was there for three months, you know. In the hill country.” She was there for three months. A young woman. Lovely. Alone.

            Mother circled my waist with her arms. Laid her cheek against my shoulder. Sighed.     

            “Her girth is firm, my son. Not soft. It is as they say.” Her tongue made a clicking sound. “I’m sorry.”

I stumbled out to Father’s shop. Had to find my way by memory since tears had stolen my vision. I swallowed air in great gulps. Over and over. Prayed my father would be there working. Hoped he wouldn’t be. Inside I collapsed in a corner. Rocked and keened, no care for who might hear. Thoughts churned. Visions tormented. Finally through the window I observed the moon as it settled into position for the night.

           "My Mary," I whispered to the stars. My very own angel. I’d thought. We’d said our vows. She was mine except for the wedding night and the subsequent feast. I’d planned it out. Every last detail. I would leave my father and mother. Go to claim her. The wedding party would see my torch and proclaim my approach. My Mary would drop everything and don her wedding dress. I knew she would be radiant. Shining with purity and anticipation. 

            After the ceremony I would lead her to the home my father and I had prepared for her. There, in a bed made by my own hands, we would become one flesh. Blood pounded in my ears at the thought.

            On our marriage bed I would arrange myself behind her. Remove her headcovering and see her hair, her crowning glory, at last. I imagined she braided and pinned it into a thick coil every morning before she concealed it. I’d release its constraints, watch the tresses tumble free in the lamp light. I would call her my dove in the cleft of the rocks. She would liken me to a gazelle or a young stag. In the moonlight I would fit my front to her back. Our bodies would line up perfectly—curve to curve, swell to swell. My breath would extinguish the lamp and in the night my innocence would find hers and—

            “Another has it!” My words ricocheted around the room gone cold. “Her purity is lost. To him. To a man in the hill country of Judea.”

            I gathered fistfuls of dust and ground them into my hair. Slapped more into my beard. Moaned from a place beneath my stomach. My eyes searched the ceiling. What kind of man must he be? To tempt Mary to sacrifice everything? My Mary. Mary who blushed whenever my sandal touched hers. Mary whose tunics were both worn at the knees due to her copious prayers. In the end I could only fathom that he must be wonderful. Much more so than I. Perfect even.

I awoke when the door to the workshop opened. Father’s form filled the doorway. I rubbed my face. Picked at the dried mud.

            “So Mother told you.”

            I began to sob again, my cries raw and hollow in the workroom. 
            “What now, Abba?” I said. “What now?”

            Father joined me on the floor. Drew me so close I could barely breathe but I didn’t want him to stop. I felt the warmth of him—his compassion, his sorrow on my account, enter through my skin. At last he released me. He reached up and patted his workbench. Brought down a knife and stub of wood. He carved as he spoke, sending tiny curls of wood to their doom in the dirt.

            “In times of trouble, son, I search the scriptures.”

            I dabbed at my nose with my sleeve. “As do I.”

            He smiled at the shape in his hands. “I know you do, son,” he said. “You’re a good man.”

            He used the edge of his garment to remove dust from his work. “It has always been my hope that I, and you, would inherit the wisdom of our forefather—”

            “Solomon?” I said.

            He nodded. “Yes, and today a scripture came to me. For such a time as this.”

            I turned my face to his. Held my breath.

            “Two are better than one, Joseph. If either falls down, the one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.”

            I cleared my throat. It burned still. “Actually, I have decided to divorce her, Father. Quietly, of course.”

            I watched Father’s chin push forward, his mouth drop open. “Oh, Joseph,” he said. “Surely not. You cannot leave her alone in her circumstance. The law—”

            I held up my hand. “Hear me out,” I said. “I have to free her from our betrothal so that when he comes for her she will not be bound to me. And he will return for her, Father. How can he not? There is none more beautiful—”

            Father shook his head. “I disagree. If that was the case, would he have let her leave Judea in the first place?”

            He stood. Extended his hand to help me up. He embraced me again and I inhaled his woody fragrance, always a part of him.

            “Perhaps he needs to save money,"  I said to the air behind him as we made our way back to the house. "For the bride price, before he can send for her. Maybe there is more to this than we know.”

            Outside the door my father turned to face me. Took my hands in his.
            “Do not be hasty, my son,” he said. “Promise me you’ll sleep on this. Pray about it. Perhaps we should fast. For wisdom.”

            I squeezed his hands and nodded. “I promise, Abba. I will sleep on it.”

“Awake! Awake, o sleepers!” Two nights later I practically sang the words to my parents as I shook them from their slumber. “The Lord, our God, the Mighty One, has done a great thing! He sent an angel. In a dream.”

            Mother and Father stumbled into the common room huddled under a single blanket.

            I stood before them, wildly gesturing. “’I will die this night.’ That was my first thought when I opened my eyes. I was sure the light of him, this being as massive as Goliath, would consume me.”

            At the table my father rubbed his eyes as my mother brought out bread and water. Their brows were furrowed. With lack of understanding? Or disbelief?

            “He said I am not to be afraid to bring Mary here as my wife. That the babe in her womb is from the Holy Spirit, the Most High God himself! Truly He has changed my mourning into dancing!”

            I scooped my mother up into my arms. Spun her around the room. Clapped and grinned like a fool. I ran to the window and shouted to all of Nazareth.

            “Mary, my Mary, is a virtuous girl. Call me a prophet for I say one day you will all call her blessed.”

            I spun to face my parents. “I am to give him the name of Jesus,” I said. “That’s what the man from heaven told me, commanded me. Because he will save his people from their sins.”

            Mother fell to her knees. Lifted her hands to heaven. “Thanks be to God for he has taken your shame, my son, and refashioned it into joy.” Tears streamed down her face.     
            Father clasped his hands together. Raised his gaze to the ceiling. 
            “This is indeed good tidings. Our Lord is both gracious and compassionate.” He stood and beckoned toward the door. “We will need to finish the addition, Joseph. Quickly.”

            Mother gasped and clutched at her chest. “A feast. I must prepare a feast,” she said. “A week from today?” She extended a hand toward Father. “Can you have their quarters completed in seven days? You and Joseph?”

            My father and I were of one mind. We spoke in unison. “Surely, nothing is impossible with the Lord.”

Do You See What I See?

Every night was the same.  Mary slept until some time between the second and third watch.  She'd wake, then lie wide-eyed until dawn.  It had been this way ever since the great and terrible day of the angel.  After his visitation, Mary found it hard to close her eyes, to even blink.  Every time she did, she saw not her life, but her son's death, pass before her vision.

How many times each night did she question her divine appointment?  She'd move her lips but make no sound.

"Oh, Sovereign Lord, why?  Why did you choose me?  Holy Father, I don't think I shall be able to bear it.  Please, won't you take this lot from me?"  

Almost always, she felt her hair stir as a slight breeze sighed through the room where she lay.  One night she thought she heard the wind speak.  "I am."  She'd turned onto her stomach, to be face down. 

"Forgive me, my Lord.  Your will is perfect.  And good.  Let it be done to me according to what you have said."


"You're a prophet, Mary," Elizabeth had said.  "A prophetess.  But don't tell the men.  They'll laugh at you.  Or yell.  Scorn your youth.  And your gender."

"A prophet?  I don't think so," Mary'd said.  "Didn't Joel, the son of Pethuel, write of our people having visions?  I don't speak for the Lord.  He shows me things."

This was after Elizabeth had made a fuss over Mary's arrival.   Elizabeth had washed her feet herself, instead of calling a servant to do it.  All the while she murmured things like, "How is it that the mother of my Lord should come to me?"

Mary shook her head.  "Elizabeth, stop," she said.  "I'm just a girl.  Your cousin.  The one you see every year at Passover in Jerusalem.  Now, tell me what it is like to feel your son move inside you."

Elizabeth took Mary's hands and placed them on either side of the tautness beneath her breasts.  She glanced down.  Smiled.

"Can you believe I have a bust like this?  At my age?  Zechariah--"

She stopped when she saw Mary blush.  She bowed her head and spoke to her belly. 

"Son?  Is my cousin, Mary, a prophetess?"

Mary watched her right hand move.  "He kicked me!"

She knelt and rested her cheek on Elizabeth's swell.  "Baby boy, is the child I carry the Son of the Most High God?"

Mary sat back on her heels and rubbed her face.  "That hurt!" 

She gulped.  Her eyes filled with tears.  Elizabeth took her hands and pulled her to standing.  She held Mary close and patted her back.  Mary thought she could feel faint and gentle movements from inside Elizabeth's belly, as if the baby wanted to communicate to her with his tiny hands.

"Shalom, cousin.  Shalom," Elizabeth said.  "Peace be with you.  Remember what the angel said?  You are highly favored among women.  Does that not please you?"

Mary pulled away.  Used her sleeve to dry her face.

"It does, cousin.  It does.  I am most grateful that my thoughts and deeds please our Lord.  But--"

Elizabeth shook her head.  "But what?  What could possibly dampen your joy?"

Mary twisted her hands.  "The angel--  He said God would give my son the throne of David."

Elizabeth drew her breath in.  "But that is good.  David was a great man."

Mary walked to the window and looked out.  "King David was a man of war." 

She sighed and turned her face toward Elizabeth.  "Also, King David did not have the Romans to contend with.  And . . ."

Elizabeth crossed the room and stood behind Mary.  She removed Mary's head covering and laid it over her arm.  She took  her hair down and combed it with her fingers.  She knew how to soothe the young woman.  She whispered into the long, dark waves.

"And what?"

Mary's inhale sounded frayed to Elizabeth.  "And ever since the angel came, I see things.  When I close my eyes."

Elizabeth rested her hands on Mary's shoulders.

"You see things.  It is as I said.  You have the gift."

Mary turned to face Elizabeth, her face contorted.  "No gift this, Elizabeth.  I see death.  Suffering."

Elizabeth put her hand over her heart.  "Of our people?  God's chosen remnant?"

Mary lowered her head.  Tears fell from her chin to her garment.

"No," she said.  "Of my son.  My baby boy, but grown.  And no one, no not one, acts on his behalf."

Elizabeth winced.  "How do you bear it, dear one?"

Mary turned back to the window and looked out into the distance.

"Promises," she said.  "The promises of our Lord.  "'Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.'  That comforts.  Sometimes."

Behind her, Elizabeth shook her head.  "You are so young, and yet, a stronger woman than I." 

The older woman slipped between Mary and the window.  She took the young woman's hands in her own.   Rested them on her girth again.

"Tell me what you see."

Mary pulled back.  Shook her head.  Elizabeth nodded slowly, her eyes narrow.  Mary closed hers.  Saw.  Shuddered.  Opened her eyes.  To stop the vision.

Elizabeth's voice was low, almost a growl.  "Tell me."

"No."  The word was a gasp.  A plea.

Elizabeth cupped Mary's chin.  Lifted it so their eyes met.

"I want to know."

"You don't."

"I need to, Mary."

Mary shook her head.  "You don't know what you're asking, cousin."

"Tell me," Elizabeth said.  "So I can pray."

"You can't pray away his destiny."

Elizabeth tilted her head.  "Can't I?"

Mary's mouth fell open.  Her eyes widened.

"No.   You can't.  Pray for his strength.  And yours.  And Zechariah's."

Elizabeth's eyes shown with tears.  She ran two fingers down the side of Mary's face. 

"I see now," she said.  "Why He chose you.  Now, tell me."

Mary squeezed her eyes shut.  Sobs wracked her small frame, but she spoke what she saw.

"I see a king.  And a young woman.  She's very beautiful.  Lovely in form.  She dances for him. He's smiling.  And then--  Soldiers.  The king sent them.  For your son."  

Mary twitched as her flesh crawled.  She swallowed.  "For his . . . head."

Mary opened her eyes when she heard Elizabeth moan.   There she was.  On the floor.  In a crumple.