Always When

The crows were uncommonly loud that day. She heard them from inside the house even, as she stood beside the stove stirring his oatmeal. Afterward, as she went out to refill the bird feeder, they screamed at the woman, reminded her how she’d always thought them harbingers of death. Their caws were so insistent she had to stop and lean against the ancient oak in the side yard.

            “This is the day.” She spoke the words into a wad of damp handkerchief. When she finally moved on, she repeated the phrase, added to it. “This is the day the Lord hath made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.”

            At the back of the yard but nowhere near the actual property line, she twirled the dial on the padlock that protected the shed’s contents, tugged on its weight and in the evergreen shadows felt it fall open in her palm. As she entered the dim, she paused a moment to watch her breath feather the mountain air. She pulled the scent of pine deep into herself, held it there as long as she could. 

            "Just in case it's the last time," she said on the exhale.

            She plunged both hands into a five-gallon bucket and withdrew twin mounds of peanuts in the shell. She filled her jacket pockets then turned, clucked and made kissy noises to signal the squirrels it was breakfast time. When she walked back into the light squinting, there they were, a dozen or more clustered around the doorway, waiting with soft bright eyes and twitching tails. Something inside her unclenched. The nuts were gone in a blink.

            “Hold on,” she told her darlings. She disappeared back into the dark, heaved the half empty five-gallon bucket waist-high and made her way back outside. In the sun's shine she tipped the pail and moved in a slow circle until the ground was littered with peanuts.

            The woman puffed a gray tendril away from her eyes. “I’d tell you to make ’em last, but you wouldn’t, would you?”

            One little fellow took to coughing and bits of nutmeat flew out of his mouth in a spray. His tiny head thrust forward over and over as he made miniature, hacking squeaks.   The woman reached for him but he bolted toward the woods and his friends followed.

            “See? You gotta be careful what you ask for,” she told the retreating crowd, “'cause you just might get it.” She fingered the cross that dangled from a chain near her throat divot. “I don’t even know if I’ll miss you,” she said to the place where they’d been. “I have no idea.”

*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. 

Crushed--Part III

“’That you are, Missy.  That you are.’”

            I clasped my hands and rested them on the notebook in my lap.  “The end,” I said.  
            Jake chuckled.  “That was good. Funny.  Now read another one.  Please.”

            I fanned through my stories. “What’re you in the mood for?   Animals? Memories of childhood? Spiritual? Poetry?”

            His eyebrows raised.  “Poetry?”

            “There’s not much, and I’m not sure how good it is, but occasionally one issues forth.”

            Jake looked at the rusted Alfa Romeo, almost consumed with weeds, across the street.  At least, he seemed to.

            “Sad,” he said. “Read me something sad.”
            I wrinkled my nose. “Really?”

            “Yeah.  The saddest thing you’ve got.  I haven’t cried since I don’t know when.”

            My breath wheezed.  Oh, Lord.  Anything but this.  I spread my fingers over my heart.  The place that is so tender toward a man who will weep.  Not loud with nose blowing.  Just a crystalline tear or two bound to commit suicide off a chin.

            “The saddest thing I have is—" I bent toward him. Spoke softly. “Come closer.”

            He leaned. I felt the warmth of him. I imagined it was pulsing so I pulled back a little.

            “Killing Her Softly,” I said. “It’s about Millie’s sister.  When she . . . “

            Jake’s hand swept the area near his feet.  Found Millie’s hind end.  He circled her tail with his thumb and middle finger.  Followed it to its end.

            “Will she be okay?”

            “Millie?  I think so. She’s crashed and besides, she’s—“

“Deaf. Not completely, but almost.”

            “Right,” I said. “Do you have tissues in your bag?”

            “Are you serious?”

            “Oh, yeah,” I said.  “Very.  Plus, I’ve never read this one out loud to anyone.  I might—“

            He fished a little plastic package of Kleenex out of his bag and tucked it under his leg.

            “Okay.  I’m ready.”

            Jake ended up needing three tissues. More for shredding than mopping.  I just kept smoothing and refolding the same one.

            “I can’t believe you read that,” he said.

            I huffed. “You’re the one who asked for it.  Said you wanted to cry.”

            “Well, that should certainly do me for a while,” he said.  He tilted over the side of his chair and groped.  Found a dog leg.  Held it captive until she pulled it away. 
            “Poor Millie.”

            I snorted. “Poor Millie?  She wasn’t there.  It’s more like, poor me.  And poor Joel.”

            I relocated to the grass.  Stretched out.  Put my hat over my face.  Let the sun soak the rest of me. Low humidity.  What a gift.  A rare one in this town in summertime.  Or maybe in any town, in a valley, with a river.

            Jake extended his legs and his foot brushed my side.  I scootched an inch to the right.

“Are you afraid?” Jake said.

            I sat up. My hat fell to the side.  I propped myself on my elbows.

            “What do you mean?” I said. “Am I afraid.  Afraid of what?” How do you know? How can you tell?

            “That you’ll have to do it all over again. With M-i-l-l-i-e.”

            My elbows gave out and I hit the grass. Shoulders then head. I squeezed my eyes shut.  Felt my heart flinch.  When I answered, I could barely hear myself.

            “Yes,” I said. “Very.  For me.  For all of us.  But mostly for Silas.  They sleep together every night now.  Share his pillow. Sometimes they spoon.   It’s so . . . “

            Salt hit my sinuses. I sucked air into my nose.  Spoke in a whisper on the exhale.

            “Terrified.  That's what I am.” I haven’t told anyone that.

            I could tell he, or some part of him, was near.  I peeked through my lashes.  Watched his hand hover.  Felt it land on my shoulder. Shut my eyes again.  Noticed my breath wait,waiting, behind my breastbone. It’s so . . . warm.  Just shy of hot.  Pat, pat, pat. I hesitated, then put mine over his.  Just for a second.  Then I got scared.  Snatched mine back.  Don’t. 

            I scrambled to my feet.  “We should go,” I said. I faced the house.  Cupped my hands around my mouth. “Silas!  Come on.” 

           Jake stood, unsteady then firm.  His eyes, no, probably his ears, searched for me.  His brow furrowed. Are you mad? Hurt?  Probably have no idea what’s wrong with me.  It was hard to watch him peer intently at a car instead of me so I slid my foot in and out of my flipflop, to help him echolocate. 

He adjusted his position. “You don’t have to—“

            Behind him, the screen door slapped.  He startled. 

            I bent to pick up my notebook. “Actually, I do.  I have to start supper.  He has karate tonight.”

            “Tomorrow then?” he said.

            I shook my head slowly.  Like he can see.  “I—We can’t, Jake.” I said. “It’s the weekend.  We do family stuff.” I recognized guilt in my tone.

            Silas came up behind me.  Scooped up Millie’s leash and flicked his wrist.

            “Wake up, girl.  Time to go.” Millie blinked up at us from her camp chair cave.  Her tail struck the ground but made no noise.

            Jake turned in the direction of our voices.  “Okay.  How about Monday then?”

            “We’ll see,” I said.  “I’ll try but . . .”  Be unpredictable. Don’t guarantee anything. Here’s your chance, a brick, for you to build a wall with.

            “Bye, Jake,” I said.  Silas waved.  I caught his forearm.  Pressed it to his side.

            “Thanks,” Jake said. “For coming.  For the stories.”

            Silas and I headed for the street.  “You’re welcome, Jake,” I said. “Have a great weekend.”

            I don’t think he heard.  When I glanced back he was halfway to the house.

The Mourning After

I will be naked soon, for the rending of my garments.  Hairless too.  The women tell me grief softens with time.  Not mine.  The pain in my mother’s heart is like 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’ll 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 I to him, a parting gift.  Dear John, the only one who didn’t flee—trembling, bleating, denying. 

~~~~~~~

I knew.  I sensed it from the very beginning.  In that moment when I heard his first wet 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 that a babe can know?  Any other?  Nothing.  This one?  Everything, and more.

Joseph had stood behind me in that place, in the moment.  “It is . . . he is . . . as the angels said.”

I felt my thoughts and Joseph’s melt together. 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.  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 tried to stand there in the stable.  Bent at the waist, I pushed my fists against my gut.  A growl of a moan worked its way up and out of me.  I shook my head, felt the whip of wet hair in my eyes.  Over and over.  My tears wet the dung at my feet.

Then every day, as he grew into his destiny, this was my prayer.

‘Not today, LORD.  Nor tomorrow.  One more day, Master.  He’s my precious boy child.  Let him live to teach, to heal, to love, another day.  He has all of eternity to be with you.  Please. Just a few more . . .”

~~~~~~~

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

“Leave.  Me.  Be.”

I look 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.  They were the bright stars of this world.  For a season.  So brief.  Then 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 died with our sons.  Moses himself could bring manna and we’d turn away.  Purse our lips, bow our heads.

I’ll let Elizabeth hold me.  Rather, I’ll cradle her fragile, diminished frame.  I’ll let down her hair.  Comb its grayness with my fingers.  Whisper into it.

“You pretend I’m John.  I’ll make believe you’re Jesus.”

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

~~~~~~~

Jesus never resembled me.  Didn’t have my eyes, the cleft in my chin.  But 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 farewell, 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.

           

A Twisted, Backwards, Upside Down Cinderella Story

(Inspired by the true words of one of the step sisters, who while sitting on the toilet proclaimed, “I’m done, Cinderella!”)

            Everyone knows the story of Cinderella: endless chores, evil stepmother and stepsisters, fairy godmother, charming prince, and glittering glass slipper. While I can’t promise you’ll find all of these things in this particular story, just bear with me. Because this version of Cinderella, though at times slightly embellished for your entertainment, is true.

            As the sun slowly began rising above the horizon, Cinderella struggled to open her eyes. Her stepsisters were up early this morning, screaming her name. She groaned and rolled over in bed, hoping that if she didn’t respond, they would give up and leave her alone.

            “Cinderella! Cinderella!” they yelled.

            I know it’s early in the story, but I’m going to go ahead and change things up. You see, while the sisters in this story could be demanding at times, they were not your stereotypical, evil stepsisters.

            Cinderella pulled the covers over her head and tried to ignore them until a single question shattered her resistance.

             “Can we come in and snuggle?” they pleaded.

            With a sigh, she dragged herself out of bed and opened the door. The blonde, blue-eyed beauties bounded into the room and began bouncing on her bed. Soon, a smile lit up Cinderella’s face and her frustration vanished. Time to start the day.

            After a few pillow fights and some tickling, Cinderella walked into the kitchen. She looked up as she saw her stepmother.

            Of course, this is where you’re expecting the story to turn nasty as the stepmother looks down her nose at Cinderella to snidely give her a long list of chores, right? Wrong!

            Cinderella’s stepmother gave her a bright smile and a friendly “Good morning” as she flipped a frying egg.  Not until they sat down to breakfast did Cinderella’s stepmother mention some of the things she would like Cinderella to do that day. Every one of them ended with a “please” or an “if you can.” Yet Cinderella inwardly groaned.
            As she worked through her list of things to do, her stepmother often worked alongside her, replete with kind thank you’s and expressions of gratitude. Nevertheless, there were times when Cinderella did not feel like washing dishes, sweeping, cooking, cleaning, and caring for two kids and a baby. However, this Cinderella could not blame a cruel stepmother or evil stepsisters for her woes. The problem came down to her. She was not a perfect Disney princess, and frankly, at times, she was lazy and selfish.
            Contrary to common belief though, what Cinderella lacked was not a fancy outfit or a trip to the ball. What she needed was some perseverance and the humble heart of a servant.
          Based on other Cinderella stories, you’re probably expecting this to be the part where her fairy godmother swoops in to turn her life around. Well, I hate to break it to you, but FAIRY GODMOTHERS AREN’T REAL.

            Cinderella did not need a flick of a wand or a bibbity bobbity boo--a temporary transformation that would fade away when the clock struck midnight. Yet she did need help. So instead of crying out to an imaginary fairy godmother, she knelt and prayed.
            And the Lord changed her. As days turned to weeks, she learned to serve joyfully and humbly, to put the needs of others above her own. She strove to work with her heart and not just her hands. She ceased doing the minimum and sought to do all that she could. At times, she still had to fight her selfish nature, but each day, she could feel her old self slipping away. Her clothes were just as dirty (the baby liked to spit up) and her hair just as wild (did I mention that it was ridiculously curly?), but her heart was being made over.

            Cinderella realized that being a princess isn't all about being swept off your feet. Sometimes it's about sweeping under someone else's. Being a servant and still living happily ever after.

            This Cinderella’s story may appear to have a very different ending--no ball, no glass slipper, and no prince (at least, not yet). But I assure you that her story ends just like that of any other Cinderella--with a life transformed. And because of God’s faithfulness, which far surpasses that of any fairy godmother, we can be certain that the changes in Cinderella’s heart will not slip away when the clock strikes midnight.  

“So you also, when you have done everything you were told to do, should say, ‘We are unworthy servants. We have only done our duty.’” Luke 17:10

(This story, ladies and gentlemen, is a guest post, written by our oldest daughter, Josephine Joy.  Josy is currently in Honduras, serving at Rancho Oasis for Youth--http://ro4y.blogspot.com// Her trip to Honduras is the third component of her gap year.  You can read about her endeavors on her blog--Adventures of a Potter's Daughter--http://www.josytarantini.blogspot.com/.  Hope you enjoy this piece as much as I did.)

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.