+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.

Oh, Christmas Tree

I’m getting ready to say goodbye, preparing to have regrets. One sentence in a five-minute discussion with a stranger and I already know the outcome.

            “My boss’ll pay to have that giant pine tree taken down.”

            Later that afternoon I walked through the front door, down the steps, and out into the street. I faced the house, tried to hold my hand so that I blocked the fifty foot evergreen on the right side of our home. Failed. I lifted my other hand and partially covered its twin on the left. I’m pretty sure if one goes, the other will follow.

            “The one on the right could be the presidential Christmas tree,” I murmur to no one. “And they could use the other one at the Rockefeller Center in New York City.”

            The men will assure me it’s the right thing to do.

            “Our roof,” my husband will surely say.

            “My rental,” the landlord will add.

            I’ll think a thought but not say it: The sky-touching trees make our house seem magical, like a castle. Do men these days still dream of castles?

            I return to the kitchen. Make a cappuccino and sip it at the table, channel Scarlett O’Hara.       

            “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll think tree thoughts.”

            Actually, can we please delay the tree talk for a few days? So I can celebrate a little while longer the fact that the nocturnal wraith that lived next door for five years, or was it four, is now gone? I picture the plum-hued smudges beneath her eyes. Recall how they looked like an Ash Wednesday priest missed her forehead, twice.

            I wonder if the lives of her dogs will improve—Doberman, Pit Bull, Doberman, sweet boys all. For the last few months I’ve only spied each of them out in the yard once a week, if that. I imagine their nearly diaphanous pet mom in her dingy camisole and rumpled gym shorts with rolled-down waistband, wearing striped rainboots. By now she must be knee-deep in dog doo. I pity the extreme-makeover-home-edition folks that will soon arrive, consider going next door with my Bath and Body Works three-wick “Winter” candle and some clothespins.

            I ponder what will become of Pet Mom. “I’m going to kill you!” Those words were hurled at her on our street last month. Made us all shudder. Someone called the cops but without probable cause all they could do was knock on the front and back doors. No one answered.

            Earlier this week, I’d peeked out from behind a drape. Watched the U-Haul move slowly down the street, her black sedan with New York plates creeping after. At first I grinned and clapped. Then I stopped myself. Exhaled and sagged. I stretched my hand out till my fingers pressed against the cold window.

            “I should’ve told you shalom,” I whispered. “It means hi, bye, peace be with you, covenant relationship with God.” I gripped my throat. “’cause I think you’re gonna need it, sweetheart, wherever you go.”

            I darted out onto the porch and down to the street, thought maybe . . . But the truck and car had already disappeared around the bend. I spoke anyway, to no one.

            “I really should’ve told you that in person. I’m sorry, that I didn’t.”

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.