Jenn's Blog

Then one day toward sundown she had gone down the path a little way into the stable cave to water the ass. She had emptied the skins into the trough and the stubby creature had bent its head to drink, when its pointed ears laid back. It shied and made an odd whimpering sound. "Hush now, what's wrong?" Mary stroked its quivering nose to gentle it, following its blank stare toward the doorway whtere a shaft of sunlight poured through.

Mary. She heard her name, and at its sound the little beast reared. "Yes, Father?" she said, though it seemed strange that he should be home from the fields so early. "Here I am. In the stall."
Mary!
Suddenly she realized that it was not her father's voice that called. She could not place it, nor the source of it, though she went to the low leaning doorway and peered out. The yard and the grove and the adjoining fields lay quivering with the falling light, peaceful and undisturbed. There was no one by the old stone cistern, no one by the vine-covered fence. Strange.

Puzzled, she turned back to the donkey. It had bent its prickly nose again to the water, but only hovered there, not drinking. Its sides were heaving. She could hear its uneasy breath. And now her own heart began to pound. She clutched its dry fur for comfort. "We must be hearing things, you and I," she said.

Then she saw that the shaft of light pouring dustily through the doorway had intensified. It had become bold, a shimmering column, and in it she dimly perceived a presence. Neither man nor angel, rather a form, a shape, a quality of such beauty that she was shaken and backed instinctively away, though her eyes could not leave that living light.

Mary. Little Mary...The voice came again, gently, musicaly. Have I frightened you? I'm sorry. Be still now, be at ease, there is nothing to fear. I am sent from God, who has always loved you, don't you remember? He has watched you grow from childhood into womanhood, and now he has a message of great importance. So listen carefully, my child, and heed.

"I am his unworthy servant," Mary whispered, though she scarcely believed her own voice. She was trembling. Could it be that her recently heightend awareness had affected her senses? Why was she speaking thus, alone with only the beast in the sun-white stall? "What...?it was difficult to form the words, "what is it that the Lord would have of me?"

There was a second of silence. Then, in clear ringing tones the answer came: Behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son and you shall call his name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High... "The Messiah!" Mary gasped. Involuntarily, she shrank away. "I? I am to bear the Messiah?" Even so. And the Lord God will give to him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end. "But I am unworthy!" Mary cried. She was grasping the nibbled manger; she felt her bare feet upon the gritty earthen floor. The sweat poured down her face. "I have many faults. I have rebelled against my parents, I often envy my cousins, I have impure thoughts. How can I be the mother of this long awaited child?" God knows the secrets of his handmaiden's heart. He does not expect perfection. This child that he will send you will be human as well as holy. The Lord God wills it so, in order that man, who is human, can find his way back to God. "But I am not yet married," Mary protested. "How can this thing be when it is many months yet before I come to the bed of my husband?" With God all things are possible, the voice said. Already he has quickened the womb of your aged aunt Elizabeth, so that soon she too will bear a son. Now the Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; and the child that is born unto you will be the Son of God. "I will strive to be worthy," Mary whispered. It was a moment before she could go on. For one stark, appalling instant she could feel something fleeing from her, something precious. She felt a sense of incalculable loss. "Behold, I am the willing handmaiden of the Lord."

She closed her eyes, still gripping the donkey's fur, the stall. When she opened them again the little beast was quietly drinking, and though the shaft of light still slanted through the doorway, its intensity was diminished, the voice of her destiny was gone.

From Two From Galilee by Marjorie Holmes