I figure I’ll flip through
a few pages before
hitting the homework
like I’m supposed to.
That’s the plan.
Our golden boy
nestles in my arms,
clutching my breast
nursing, oblivious
to the braying of donkeys,
the mooing of cows,
and the smell of offal
pervading this stable
in the heart of Bethlehem.
Joseph hangs over my shoulder,
his face a mask of wonderment.
I sigh, no less in awe
than he.
Husband.
Mother.
Son.
These new words
roll round my mind
like shiny marbles,
bursting with color and light.
Was it truly only
nine months ago
I blushed
at the very idea of a wedding bed?
So much has happened since then.
I close my eyes, straining to remember
a time before the angel Gabriel,
a time before the Lord Jehovah
visited just long enough
to turn my world
upside down.
Early evening
is my favorite time of day.
I take my time
winding down the hills of Nazareth
to the village well.
My feet know the way
so I can concentrate on enjoying
my silent conversation
with Jehovah:
me meditating on his word,
Him speaking to my heart.
Some evenings,
when the wind strokes my cheek,
I can almost hear him
call my name.
Playful pouting is not seemly,
Father told me,
not during the holiest of seasons,
and perhaps he was right.
But I do not understand
why I must be
as heavy and somber as he
at Passover.
The coming festival fills me
with joy-
a few days away from Nazareth,
another chance to stand
in the temple of our God,
another opportunity
to feel the sway
of sweet psalms sung
by the Levite choir there.
Why should such wonders
weigh me down with the sadness
I see on Father’s face?
Mother reminds me
that each of us comes to Passover
with a different heart.
What matters, she tells me,
is that we give that heart
to God.
Her wisdom is enough
to send me to Father’s side.
“Forgive me, Father,” I say.
“Let me help you pack
for the journey.”
I lie on my pallet that night
wondering what it was like
when the Angel of Death
stole the firstborn
of all under Egypt’s wing,
save those blessed ones
whose homes were blood-marked
for salvation,
those faithful Jews
who knew God was
as good as his word:
Pharaoh’s kingdom would suffer
until he set God’s people free.
Would I have shuddered
as the Shadow of Death
passed me by?
Would I have had
enough breath left
to praise Jehovah?
And now, because of that
long-ago night,
we Jews are free,
Pharaoh having lost
his taste for Jewish slaves,
the life of his young son
a price too high
after all.
The latter rains
have wet the earth,
but my poor eyes
are dry as the desert wind.
The three-day journey to Jerusalem
punishes with aching calves
and blistered feet.
Why is it I always manage to forget
the tedium of this trek?
I feel a complaint
rising to my lips,
but bite it back
when I remember holy Scripture.
“Let the Israelites keep the Passover
at the appointed time.”
I chew on God’s words,
determining to put one foot
in front of the other.
I shade my eyes
and look ahead,
finding my betrothed in the distance,
his gait as steady as it was
when we left Nazareth.
He may be closer to my father’s age than mine,
but Joseph will make a fine husband,
I think for the hundredth time.
Then I’m distracted
by the glittering jewel
rising out of the desert:
Jerusalem!
The setting sun bounces golden
off the walls of the temple
where Jehovah resides,
and my heart beats faster.
I awake to new strength
surging through me,
and lengthen my stride.
As we draw closer to the Holy City,
I pick up the pace,
pausing every now and then
to wipe away my tears.
Back home in Nazareth,
my family and I
relax after dining,
sated with food and new memories
of the Passover festival.
The songs of the Levite choir
still ring in my ears.
My soul carried them with me
like waterskins,
refreshment for
the long journey home.
The glint in my father’s eye
reminds me of
the golden incense holder
I’ve heard men speak of.
I have never glimpsed it
from the Court of Women.
Pity that we’re not permitted
to see the holy sacrifices
for ourselves.
Though, truth be told,
I would rather not watch
an animal have its throat slit.
Still.
“You know, Father,” I say.
“Next year at the Passover,
I believe I’ll enter the Court of Israel
to witness the sacrifices firsthand.”
Father almost drops his cup of wine.
“What?”
“They say a woman did so once before.
Besides, am I not as much
a child of God as any man?”
Father’s eyes flash toward Mother.
“Speak to your daughter!”
Mother gives me her sternest look,
for Father’s benefit,
then, when he turns away,
we share a secret smile.
Later, as we clean the cooking pots,
she tells me,
“I see what joy it gives you
to frighten your father.
But I ask you,
why settle for being equal with men?”
My mother’s bold words
make me love her more,
and I pledge myself to walk
in her strength.
Someday, I hope my children
will walk in mine.
Familiar as my bedchamber is,
I miss the temple.
Not the raucous crowds,
or the squeal of lambs
or squawk of pigeons
readied for the sacrifice,
but His Presence.
I met God in the temple,
and he knew me.
In some strange way,
I even feel him here.
I snuggle down
on my sleeping mat,
and close my eyes.
But not for long.
An angel slips into my room,
announces that God is on his way,
then tells me I am to be mother
of Messiah, the Promised One,
the Savior of our people;
that my once-barren cousin Elizabeth,
too old to bear a child,
bears one now.
What sense am I
to make of that?
I rub my eyes,
waiting to wake,
unable to shake this vision.
Lord?
What is happening?
I feel a gentle warmth
settling over me,
fingers of heat
fluttering from naval to knee.
Am I dreaming?
What is this cloud of light?
I close my eyes
and count to three,
but when I look again,
the shadow without darkness
is still swallowing me whole.
I poke its side,
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