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,
then hide my face
when my touch
sends up sparks without flame.
Lord,
what is this cool fire
that licks my skin,
and why do I tingle so?
Gabriel?
Is this what you meant?
Gabriel?
Are you still there?
Who will believe me?
Who?
And what if no one does?
What then?
I march through the next day
numb, that one question
circling my mind
like a vulture
ready to pick my thoughts clean.
I feel my belly,
flat as ever,
and close my eyes,
remembering the fire
of God’s touch,
hearing the echo of the word
Messiah.
And what about Joseph?
We are as good as married,
our betrothal
as binding as any other,
and nothing less than
a paper of divorcement
could end it.
Of course, we have never
shared a bed,
nor will we
until our wedding night.
So, if I truly am with child,
Joseph will know
the father
is someone else.
And what will Joseph-
No. I am not yet ready
to consider
what hard or bitter things
might await me
in the distance.
Besides, the Lord Jehovah
will meet me there.
Yes?
“Are you deaf?”
My mother’s voice penetrates,
unwelcome,
reaching me easily from downstairs.
“What?”
“Is your homework done?”
she asks.
I trade Mary, Mary for my notebook,
and yell down “Soon!”
That’s as close to the truth
as I can manage.
Lucky for me, I’m a good student.
By the time she calls “Lights out,”
I’m done.
I flip the switch.
“Goodnight,” says Mom.
“Goodnight,” I answer.
I place Mary, Mary beneath my pillow
and feel a little closer
to God.
Where have I been?
I wake and look around
as if the world is new,
or old.
I can’t tell which,
only that
the fog inside my head
is lifted
and I can think again.
I can see.
Trey was bad for me.
Time to move on.
Off to school.
English lit to study.
Friends to concentrate on.
Volleyball to play.
Pray coach and teachers
don’t call on you.
Got lots of catching up to do.
Long as I can remember,
Seth and me,
we were two peas
in a pod,
exactly alike
in every way.