Like Salt to French Fries

I live to hear the words, "Can you fill a food order, please?” In my mind, I see myself going down into a lunge. Left knee touches the ground, right arm comes back like I'm starting a lawn mower. "Yesssss!"
            I bolt up the stairs, two at a time, to the top floor. I stand in front of the shelves and fill old grocery bags with pasta, peanut butter, cans of soup, and fruit cocktail. I can't stop grinning because this makes me happy.

~~~

It was almost six years ago. I was headed to BB&T. I watched my feet on the sidewalk. "Step on a crack, break your mother's back.” After awhile, I looked up and instead of being in front of the bank, I was in front of a building that said Loving in big letters.
            I reckon it had something to do with Isaiah 58:7. It'd been on my mind for almost two years. "Share your food with the hungry. Clothe the naked." The words were a shish kabab skewer that poked me under the ribs every time I heard or read them.
            I'd been praying. Waiting. Looking for a burning bush. All of a sudden, there it was.   But it wasn't burning, and it wasn't a bush. It was Christian Help, Incorporated, founded in 1975.

~~~

Every Tuesday, more often than not, I drive down Grand Street to town, to Christian Help. I peer up through the blue part of my windshield. "A parking spot right in front would be awesome, God.” Usually it's there, especially if my trunk is full.
            I walk in the front door and say, "Howdy," to whoever's at the front desk. Used to be Glinda, before she had a stroke and moved to assisted living. I always hugged her and whispered into her steel-colored curls, "Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?”
            She'd cup one of my cheeks with her cool, dry hand and smile up at me. "Good to see you, girlie."

~~~

I love them, all the ladies. I'm going on year six of volunteering and they've put in twenty five or more. I work two to three hours a week. Some of them are there every day. They're all in their seventies, at least. And Spud, who moved here from Jersey, to live with her daughter? She's ninety something. Reminds me of a grey-haired Jack in a deck of cards.
            There's also Rose and Annie, Sis and Carol too. Ethel and Earlene come on Tuesdays, like me. Glory hallelujah when Ethel brings one of her pound cakes. Thank you, Jesus when we have a pot luck lunch and Earlene brings her sauerkraut with tiny, tasty shreds of pork.
            I love the shining, antique faces of the ladies, the way their eyes and teeth flash white when I spring through the doorway of the clothes sorting room. Their smiles say they're as glad to see me as I am to see them.

~~~

I've seen a whole lot of staff come and go in six years. That's the nature of Americorp Vista, usually paid a pittance, workers. But Cheryl, the executive director, has been there since before me. God bless her because running Christian Help requires managing chaos, reassessing the greatest need, the greatest good, Monday through Friday, plus the first Saturday of the month.
            Cheryl's radiant. Maybe she goes to a tanning booth. Or she could be part Native American. Just between you and me, I think it's because she loves the Lord. Moses glowed when he came down from the mountain of God, you know.

~~~

I stopped asking the younger volunteers why they're at Christian Help. Usually it's because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now I just smile real big and say, "Welcome!  We're so glad you're here."
            One time a handsome guy, who filled out his t-shirt sleeves, asked me why I volunteer at Christian Help. I'd been waiting for that question, waiting for the chance to give the reason for the hope that I have. I had paragraphs prepared, but they evaporated. "'Cause I love Jesus.” My voice sounded wee. He squinted at me, head tilted. "Cool."

~~~

To me, serving, volunteering, whatever you want to call it, is like that line in the Jerry McGuire movie:  It completes me. For years, I attended Bible study every Friday morning, learned all kinds of neat stuff. But one day, a wise woman's opinion changed my life. "Bible study is all well and fine, but sooner or later, we have to start doing what Jesus told us to.”
            I think serving is to life what salt is to French fries. I understood that the first time I filled an emergency food order. It was a religious experience. Spud's the unofficial queen of the food pantry, but she wasn't there to hear me say, "I'm doing it. I'm feeding Jesus' sheep."

~~~

I sure hope I'll still be driving down Grand Street to town, to Christian Help, for another couple decades.  After that, much as I love to hear, "Can you fill a food order?" or, "Can you help someone with an interview outfit?" what I long to hear is, "Well done, good and faithful servant.” But not yet, not until I'm at least as old as Spud.

(In loving memory of Edith Applegate Bilson, also known as "Spud.")

To Infinity and Beyond

Dear gracious and compassionate One, He who is close to the brokenhearted, You seem to be calling her home. If so, I pray that instead of sorrow, she would know only anticipation. Of the ever after, infinity, glory. A dry place. No tears.

            I hope You stand between her and her earthly love, one great and gentle arm across her shoulder, another around his, drawing them to Yourself. I ask that the air they breathe be You (That near. Be that near to them, please.). Exhale a soft breath, a halo both warm and cool, above their heads. 

            And maybe if you would, give her, perhaps even him, when their faces are side by side, ears to hear the things on high, the sounds only immortals are privvy to: living waterfalls, choirs of millions, wingbeats of seraphim. “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come.”

            In addition, would you also please prepare a spacious place for her at your feet, in your throne room where I imagine (desire, really) your floorcovering is by morning a sunrise and by evening a sunset? Some day, and it may be years from now, (and if it is, we will praise Your name even as we laugh and call her Hezekiah), she’ll wind one ethereal arm around the essence of You on her left, then lay one elegant hand on one of your Son’s piercings on her right. A moment later, out of habit, her slender fingers will relocate to the space in front of her ribs. Glide and tap, together and apart, and though there is no keyboard, there will be a song, a gorgeous melody.

(She doesn’t know me but this is my prayer for her.)

+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.

An Unexpected Grief

(Sometimes we write to connect with others. Other times we write to connect with ourselves, our pain. This is one of those circumstances. This piece of writing is oblique and I know it.  Even so, I can’t bring myself to be otherwise. Yet.)

Will you weep with me? Share my woe? Then perhaps it will be halved, divided. Might you accompany me to the places sadness leads, examine the items it dredges up? 

            I grieved the unknown then found I preferred it to the truth. Now randomly, frequently, the surprise of loss claws at me, flings punches in the vicinity of my kidneys. I wasn’t ready. It was too soon, much.

            The trail of my tears is charcoal gray with bits of plum and glimmers of silver shine, or is it Fool’s Gold?

             The feeling of responsibility whether warranted or not is insistent. If only . . . What if . . . I shouldn’t have . . . It’s not even my burden but I take it on gladly, not wanting it to break another beneath its crush.  And then there is the silence, the secret, that must be maintained. We cannot open wounds in others with this knowledge. Secrecy is a frigid lightless cave insisting you are alone even if you're not.

            Should I thank this sorrow for the way it’s making my hand bleed upon the page? In this moment, I wish I’d write never more. Will I be despised? For my incompleteness, my lack of clarity, my refusal to truth tell? Translate my reticence as mystery, an opportunity. Fill in the blanks with your heart. What is your secret grief, your regret? What is the reason you hum, “Turn your eyes upon Jesus” and soon after, “And the things of this world will grow strangely dim”? Or perhaps your song is, "Comfortably Numb."

            I want to gather the people who know, the very few—the two, no, three, who are aware. I’ll arrange us in a row with me in the middle then I’ll unfold a handkerchief and smooth it out atop my thighs, outline a fuchsia lipstick heart in the center. Soon after, I’ll drop my tears inside of it. 

*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. 

*The Secret Weapon*

Shhhh!  Don't tell anyone but this season I'm the secret weapon. On my softball team. And I've never even played before. I take that back. I've played a little. I subbed as needed last summer, but I wasn't any good. Failed most at bats. Never got anyone out. It wasn't my fault though. No one would throw me the ball. Ever.
            This season though, I've only struck out once. See, I use the Think System. You know, like Professor Hill in The Music Man. If you think you can play music, you will. If you think you can hit the ball, you can. It helps that I warm up real good. I swing the bat ferociously and chant Bible verses like, "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me," and, "Be strong and courageous.” Visualization works too. I pretend I'm that chick in the Old Testament who pounded a tent spike through some war hero's skull. Nailed him to the ground, literally. That's the kind of spiritual and girl power I try to channel.
            This summer I've found it helpful to suck up to the umpires. So far, it's working for me. They've all been very nice. They try really hard to teach me the rules. And heck, they throw more balls back to the pitcher than I do. Plus, they give me grace when I throw the bat after I hit.
            "I'll have to call you out for that next time, sweetie."
            I blow them a kiss from first base. "Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Umpire, sir!"

My coach, Corey, says I'm much better at defense this season. It might be because I talked my husband into giving me twenty bucks every time I get someone out. I've caught a couple of pop-up fouls and I tagged a girl who didn't know her tee tiny hit was fair. I hoot and holler and jump up and down when I get people out. Even climbed the backstop once.
            I've always been super good at psychological defense. No one had to teach me that.
            "You're talking smack," my husband said.
            "No, I'm not," I said. "I'm killing 'em with kindness, with sugar."
            First off, I determine to learn everyone's name on the other team. Then I use their names, or their nicknames, as often as possible. When they're up at bat I give a running commentary of what I know about each hitter.
            "This is Rebecca. She's a math teacher at the high school. She hit a line drive right to Corey last time she was up, but that's way better than striking out.” Or, "This is Samantha. Isn't she adorable? Not everyone can pull off a side ponytail. She's engaged on Facebook, aren't you, darling?"
            My chatter makes some people giggle. Others get mad. Usually the guys. I see their shoulders tense up and if I step in front of them to get a ball, they often have furrowed brows and small eyes. Mad or glad, it tends to throw them off. Bad for them. Good for us.
            I always cheer for everyone who gets a good hit, either team. And I praise anyone who makes a great play in the field.
            Evan Almighty, our right center, says, "If it weren't for you, all the teams would hate us."
            I tilted my head when he told me that. "Why?"
            "'Cause you're nice to everybody," he said.
            Evan's a pagan but I love him. He can't run very far because he smokes a boatload of cigarettes. His one and only bit of facial hair looks like a fuzzy thumbprint under his full, cherry-Kool-Aid-colored lower lip.
            "You guys are all Jesus freaks, aren't you?" he asked Corey.
            "Yep. Pretty much.”

            "I don't mind," Evan said. "You all are cool.  You don't stuff him down my throat."
            I pray for Evan to kick his ciggy habit. And for him to get a honey of a wife. He was engaged awhile back but unfortunately, it turned out his fiance was from the Isle of Lesbos.

One of my favorite things about playing softball is breaking down the hardcore, rough tough cream puff, winning is everything players. They're not always guys either. I'd have to use a hammer to get some girls to crack a smile.
            Once they get to know and like me though, some teams let me get on base, just because. One time, I even got hugged.
            "Thank you so much," I said when I pounced on third base. "For dawdling, just so I could get here."
            "Girl, you are the cutest thing ever," the third basewoman said. "Give me a hug."
            I grinned and leaned into her arms. "Your lips look a little chapped," I told her. "Want some lip gloss?"

Besides making sure everyone has a good time, I really enjoy the hand pat line we do when the game's over.
            "This was fun."
            "You all are really good."
            "Great game."
            "Good luck the rest of the season."
            "You, Missy, are the MVP of your team.” A big, tall guy with three white zeros on his blue jersey told me that one Friday night.
            I glanced behind me then back at him. I pointed to my chest.
            "Are you talking to me?"
            He huffed. "Uh, yeah."
            I pulled him aside. "I'm not a MVP, Triple Zip," I said. "I'm a S.W.."
            He swept his sweaty bangs over to the side and squinted down at me. "A what?"
            I stood on my tiptoes, cupped my hands around my mouth, and whispered in his ear.     

            "Secret weapon."
            He grinned and thumped me on the back. "That you are, Missy. That you are."

Three for the Price of One

At the end of the day I recline on a wide and silver raft, bobbing in the ocean’s surf. Content. Occasionally I open an eye to admire the rainbow sherbet sky. It would be perfect if only—

            “Thirsty?”

            I scramble up on my elbows. Survey all around me. Who spoke?

            A cup of Chick-Fil-A lemonade appears in my hand. What the—

            “Are you comfortable?” The raft inflates slightly.

            “Do you feel safe?”

            Eyes wide, heartbeat nudging my bathing suit top, I nod.

            “Look. Someone’s waving at you from the beach.”

He’s in a creamy linen suit, a soft blue shirt underneath, heading my way. The surf mist stirs the hair that frames his face, coaxes it to curl. He reaches for my hand. I scoot to the edge of the raft and pinch at his fingertips. He pulls me to standing. Walks through the ocean froth beside me. To the shore.

            There’s a low table set for two on a jewel-toned tapestry. He kneels and dusts off my feet before I step onto the carpet.

            “Care for a glass of wine? Some bread?”

            “Will it taste like . . . Like your—”

            He smiles. “Don’t worry. It’s wonderful.”

            After we eat, drink, he reaches for me again. “Shall we dance?”

            And we do. He holds me close. The smell of him is clean sweat and ocean air. I enjoy the feel of his strong palm in the curve of my back. Notice the knots of scar tissue. In the center of both hands.

            “May I dip you?”

            His eyes. What in the world color are they? Every.

            “Yes. Please.”

            Twirl. Sway. Dip.

            I rest my head in the valley of his chest. Mouth I love you. 

            I sneak a peek at his face. His gaze is serious.

            “Don’t just love me. Be in love with me.”

            When we spin, all of me buzzes.

            “There’s someone I want you to meet,” he says into my hair.

           

“There are many things I do,” the Spirit says as I stoop to pick up a pretty shell. “Teach, convict, comfort. But most of what I do could be considered revelation. What would you like for me to reveal, my child? Anything but that thought you just had.”

            The cross. I had asked to see Calvary. Needed to.

            “Beloved, you hold up your hand to shield from your vision dead animals by the side of the road. Cover your head with a blanket when a lion stalks a gazelle on television.”

            I whimper. And nod. “I know. But just give me a glimpse, five seconds maybe. That’s all I need.”

            “All you need for what?”

            I brush my fingers over my collarbone. It feels a tad sunburned. And then it doesn't.

            “You know,” I said. Of course he does. He’s God. One of the trio. Nothing escapes their comprehension.

            “Yes, but speak it anyway. Words are how you make sense of things. For yourself and others. Say it for you.”

            I squinch my face. “But it’s awful.”

            “Not to me.”

            I gaze down the beach to the left. No one. I look to the right. Everyone seems to have gone inside. I shiver.

            “Move into the water,” the Spirit says. “It’s warmer there.”

            I wade in up to my knees. Lower myself into the bathtub warmth of it. Beside me, the water stirs.

            “Have you ever seen a person die?” Spirit says.

            “No.”

            “And funerals frighten you.”

            I nod.

            Warmth and weight rest across my shoulders, a yoke.

            “You’re not Thomas, you know.”

            I turn toward where I think he is. Blink several times before my salt water drops into his.

            “But I am.” A breeze brushes my face and I’m sure he told it to. To dry my tears.

            “You believe," he says. "Without seeing. Without touching scars.”

            “Yes, but I want to believe more.” 

            “Ah. Then you are like the possessed boy’s father.”

            I huff. “I wish I was him,” I say. “Or one of the disciples. They witnessed everything. The healings, Lazarus emerging from his tomb, Calvary, the empty grave.”

            I face another direction, unsure of where the Spirit is now.

            “After all they saw, they weren’t afraid. Ever again. They told everyone. About Jesus. I don’t. Not like I should. I’m a scaredy cat.”

            Ripples are everywhere now. “I heard something once,” Spirit says, “that you may find useful. ‘Comparison is the thief of joy.’”

            I think on that as my eyes take in the peach-colored seam of light on the horizon.

            “Some think you very brave,” the Spirit says. His voice sounds like the wind now. “They believe your faith considerable.”

            I grind my wrist into my nose. Swish my hand in the sea foam.

            “They’re wrong. I don’t have a mustard seed, probably not even a mustard atom.”

            “Child, words are powerful, spoken or written. Consider how mine have endured.”

            I splash water onto my shoulders. Walk my hands back along the ocean floor until my hair floats behind me and the sea kisses my chin.

            “Hold your breath,” the Spirit says.

            I puff my cheeks out and am pressed under the waves then quickly buoyed up. I grin. Wipe water from my cheeks.

            “Look there,” the Spirit says. “Above you.”

            A bird flies overhead, not a seagull or pelican though. I squint. Is that a . . . The evening’s waning light outlines the dove in silver. I follow her flight as she traces a circle in the sky.

            Inside my head Spirit’s voice is soft, personal. “This is my daughter, whom I love; with her I am well pleased, no matter what she thinks.”

            I search the water’s surface for the place I’d last seen ripples. I spin, seeking. The sea is smooth now everywhere I look. Like a page. I feel suddenly lonely so I dogpaddle toward the shore. When my knees scrape bottom, I stand. Shudder at the chill of the night air. I race to my beach towel. It’s neatly folded even though I’m sure I left it in disarray. I wrap myself in its embrace. It’s warm, very. Like someone was inside it, just a moment ago.

(I'm not sure I love-love this piece so I am providing an alternative below.)

He is risen!

The Woman in Red--Part V

I waited on the shore with the others, as Dan had instructed. Thankfully there was no one I knew. No one with a pointing finger to shout, “Unclean! Unclean!”

            When the boat appeared on the horizon, a shout arose from the crowd.    

            "Rabbi!"            

            We pressed forward, a solid mass. A single, throbbing creature. For a moment, I considered flight. In the other direction, toward hill country and home. After a life of loneliness, the assault on my senses—shouts and creature calls, manure and perspiration, jabbing shoulders and elbows—overwhelmed me. Plundered the very air from my nose and mouth. In a panic I searched the faces of those nearby. Could they hear the pounding of my heart? Should I flee before my condition was revealed? I shook my head, almost violently. No, I hissed under my breath. Be strong and courageous. This is the day, possibly the only opportunity I will ever have, to accomplish the one thing that might bring me joy. I reclaimed my breath and set my face like flint. Forced my shoulders back and made my way toward the water’s edge.

            As the boat drew near, some entered the lake, no doubt desiring to plead their case first. The noise level increased and nearly deafened me, more cries of distress than anything. Blind were led. Lame limped or were bolstered or carried. A filthy boy, his eyes wide and roaming, his mouth ringed with spittle, twisted and writhed within the circle of his family.            
            Finally the boat came to rest on land with a gritty sigh. The horde of humanity converged on the vessel at all its points.
            "Master! Teacher!" the people cried.
            "Over here, Sir," a woman's voice said. "Please. If you but—"
             "Step away," one of the men inside the boat said. "Back off so we can disembark. Make a way for Jesus."
           I focused my gaze on the greatest healer the world had ever known, or so Dan's  note had said. He looked like any man. Could he possibly be different? Special? I considered the throng, pawing and pushing to get close to him. How might I, a woman alone, create an opportunity to speak with him, to tell him my plight? I bit at my lower lip. There were so many ailments represented here. Everyone of us needed him. Every one. Why would he listen to me?
             Suddenly the group parted. A man in pristine robes stepped through.

            “It’s Jairus, from the synagogue,” someone noted.

            Up ahead I watched the man collapse at the rabbi's feet. The hands he raised to the teacher were both elegant and trembling. Tears rinsed his contorted face.

            “Please, my Lord,” he said, his voice coarse with grief. “My little daughter is dying. I beg you. Please come lay your hands on her so she will be healed and live.”

            I whimpered. His little girl? Is dying? Oh, Lord! Go with him. Save her. I will . . . I do not . . .

            I watched Jesus do as I said. He moved away from me to follow the man called Jairus. In that moment, I felt hollow.

            Soon after, I was swept along as the crowd surged in pursuit of the Master. As it carried me with it, a thought occurred to me. It is not necessary for him to see me or know who I am. If I but touch the hem of his tunic I will be healed.  I stretched out my arm toward his cloak but fell short. A moan escaped me. Again the crowd heaved so that I was pitched up and forward. Suddenly one of the tassels affixed to the edge of his prayer shawl brushed my fingertips. Immediately it stopped—the fountain of blood from within me. I’m healed. Everything inside me knew it, felt it, declared it.

            I held the fingers that touched his garment to my lips, then my chest. I am free. I dropped to the dust. Hid my face in my hands. Wept and worshipped. It is finished. I reached upward. Attempted to hold heaven.

            All around me people pushed and shoved, crushed against, and grabbed at me.

            “Move it, woman. Get up!”

             “Who touched me?”

            Through the din I recognized his voice. Deep. Commanding. My breath caught. I cowered. Watched his disciples survey the area. I straightened. Hurried to the Master. Groveled at his feet. I clutched the edge of his garment. Laid my cheek against it.

            “My Lord, forgive me,” I said. “It was I. Sir, for twelve years I have bled without ceasing. I spent all I had on many physicians and yet my condition grew worse, not better. Then I heard . . .”

            When I dared lift my gaze to his, I gasped. At the depth of love and familiarity in his eyes.

            I gestured weakly toward Jairus. “I saw that you were going to help his . . . And surely her need is . . .”
          I covered my mouth, to stop the words, but the rabbi nodded for me to continue. 
          “Sir, I have not touched anyone in . . . And no man would ever . . . I thought, if I could only . . .”

            My words dried up even as my eyes and nose ran hot. Sobs convulsed my frame.

            The Lord rested one hand on my shoulder. Stilled my shaking. He cupped my face with his other. Warmed me through.

            “Take heart, daughter,” he said. “Your faith has healed you.”

            He extended his hand to help me up, then disappeared with his disciples.

            I spun around. Attempted to locate him again, to no avail. Frustrated, desperate, I labored to keep in the front part of the group. I cringed when I felt the packing between my legs loosen and fall away. I glanced behind me, at the bodies, at the road, but I saw nothing. The evidence of my suffering had vanished—trampled by sandals and bare feet. With a sigh I moved toward the edge of the group to take a sip from my wineskin.  I stood on tiptoe and shaded my eyes to see if there was any sign of the Master in the distance. That’s when I thought I saw— Indeed it was— I bunched my tunic with one hand and waved with my other. Broke into a run.
          "Ada! Dan!" I shouted. "Wait for me!"

No Ordinary Joe

She is dead to me. I tried to speak the words. Instead I swallowed them, bitter as bile, moments after Mother delivered the news.

            “Sit,” she said when I entered the room for the midday meal. She pushed a cup across the table. More wine than water. “Drink.”

            Parched from the morning’s work and wood dust, I gulped the contents. Mother used her hip to nudge me over on the bench. Covered my hands with hers.

            “It is thickening, Joseph,” she said.

            My eyes narrowed. “What is?”

            Mother brushed my knuckles with her thumb. “Her waist,” she said. “Your Mary’s.”

            My Mary? At first I didn’t understand. Her waist? What? Then I knew. I coughed. Couldn’t stop. I clutched at my chest. Hacked. Tried to stand but the room seemed to tilt and take flight. My knees felt watery. My cup struck the floor with a clank. Rolled.

            Mother pounded my back several times. My eyes teared. She’d spoken so casually. How could she be calm? Who? Who had told her this thing?

            “I didn’t believe my sisters, so I searched for her, your Mary, in the market. When she embraced me, Joseph, I discovered . . . They were right.”

            I attempted speech. Failed. I summoned spit to wet my throat. Rasped out words.

            “Perhaps her cousin Elizabeth is gifted with food,” I said. “Mary was there for three months, you know. In the hill country.” She was there for three months. A young woman. Lovely. Alone.

            Mother circled my waist with her arms. Laid her cheek against my shoulder. Sighed.     

            “Her girth is firm, my son. Not soft. It is as they say.” Her tongue made a clicking sound. “I’m sorry.”

I stumbled out to Father’s shop. Had to find my way by memory since tears had stolen my vision. I swallowed air in great gulps. Over and over. Prayed my father would be there working. Hoped he wouldn’t be. Inside I collapsed in a corner. Rocked and keened, no care for who might hear. Thoughts churned. Visions tormented. Finally through the window I observed the moon as it settled into position for the night.

           "My Mary," I whispered to the stars. My very own angel. I’d thought. We’d said our vows. She was mine except for the wedding night and the subsequent feast. I’d planned it out. Every last detail. I would leave my father and mother. Go to claim her. The wedding party would see my torch and proclaim my approach. My Mary would drop everything and don her wedding dress. I knew she would be radiant. Shining with purity and anticipation. 

            After the ceremony I would lead her to the home my father and I had prepared for her. There, in a bed made by my own hands, we would become one flesh. Blood pounded in my ears at the thought.

            On our marriage bed I would arrange myself behind her. Remove her headcovering and see her hair, her crowning glory, at last. I imagined she braided and pinned it into a thick coil every morning before she concealed it. I’d release its constraints, watch the tresses tumble free in the lamp light. I would call her my dove in the cleft of the rocks. She would liken me to a gazelle or a young stag. In the moonlight I would fit my front to her back. Our bodies would line up perfectly—curve to curve, swell to swell. My breath would extinguish the lamp and in the night my innocence would find hers and—

            “Another has it!” My words ricocheted around the room gone cold. “Her purity is lost. To him. To a man in the hill country of Judea.”

            I gathered fistfuls of dust and ground them into my hair. Slapped more into my beard. Moaned from a place beneath my stomach. My eyes searched the ceiling. What kind of man must he be? To tempt Mary to sacrifice everything? My Mary. Mary who blushed whenever my sandal touched hers. Mary whose tunics were both worn at the knees due to her copious prayers. In the end I could only fathom that he must be wonderful. Much more so than I. Perfect even.

I awoke when the door to the workshop opened. Father’s form filled the doorway. I rubbed my face. Picked at the dried mud.

            “So Mother told you.”

            I began to sob again, my cries raw and hollow in the workroom. 
            “What now, Abba?” I said. “What now?”

            Father joined me on the floor. Drew me so close I could barely breathe but I didn’t want him to stop. I felt the warmth of him—his compassion, his sorrow on my account, enter through my skin. At last he released me. He reached up and patted his workbench. Brought down a knife and stub of wood. He carved as he spoke, sending tiny curls of wood to their doom in the dirt.

            “In times of trouble, son, I search the scriptures.”

            I dabbed at my nose with my sleeve. “As do I.”

            He smiled at the shape in his hands. “I know you do, son,” he said. “You’re a good man.”

            He used the edge of his garment to remove dust from his work. “It has always been my hope that I, and you, would inherit the wisdom of our forefather—”

            “Solomon?” I said.

            He nodded. “Yes, and today a scripture came to me. For such a time as this.”

            I turned my face to his. Held my breath.

            “Two are better than one, Joseph. If either falls down, the one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.”

            I cleared my throat. It burned still. “Actually, I have decided to divorce her, Father. Quietly, of course.”

            I watched Father’s chin push forward, his mouth drop open. “Oh, Joseph,” he said. “Surely not. You cannot leave her alone in her circumstance. The law—”

            I held up my hand. “Hear me out,” I said. “I have to free her from our betrothal so that when he comes for her she will not be bound to me. And he will return for her, Father. How can he not? There is none more beautiful—”

            Father shook his head. “I disagree. If that was the case, would he have let her leave Judea in the first place?”

            He stood. Extended his hand to help me up. He embraced me again and I inhaled his woody fragrance, always a part of him.

            “Perhaps he needs to save money,"  I said to the air behind him as we made our way back to the house. "For the bride price, before he can send for her. Maybe there is more to this than we know.”

            Outside the door my father turned to face me. Took my hands in his.
            “Do not be hasty, my son,” he said. “Promise me you’ll sleep on this. Pray about it. Perhaps we should fast. For wisdom.”

            I squeezed his hands and nodded. “I promise, Abba. I will sleep on it.”

“Awake! Awake, o sleepers!” Two nights later I practically sang the words to my parents as I shook them from their slumber. “The Lord, our God, the Mighty One, has done a great thing! He sent an angel. In a dream.”

            Mother and Father stumbled into the common room huddled under a single blanket.

            I stood before them, wildly gesturing. “’I will die this night.’ That was my first thought when I opened my eyes. I was sure the light of him, this being as massive as Goliath, would consume me.”

            At the table my father rubbed his eyes as my mother brought out bread and water. Their brows were furrowed. With lack of understanding? Or disbelief?

            “He said I am not to be afraid to bring Mary here as my wife. That the babe in her womb is from the Holy Spirit, the Most High God himself! Truly He has changed my mourning into dancing!”

            I scooped my mother up into my arms. Spun her around the room. Clapped and grinned like a fool. I ran to the window and shouted to all of Nazareth.

            “Mary, my Mary, is a virtuous girl. Call me a prophet for I say one day you will all call her blessed.”

            I spun to face my parents. “I am to give him the name of Jesus,” I said. “That’s what the man from heaven told me, commanded me. Because he will save his people from their sins.”

            Mother fell to her knees. Lifted her hands to heaven. “Thanks be to God for he has taken your shame, my son, and refashioned it into joy.” Tears streamed down her face.     
            Father clasped his hands together. Raised his gaze to the ceiling. 
            “This is indeed good tidings. Our Lord is both gracious and compassionate.” He stood and beckoned toward the door. “We will need to finish the addition, Joseph. Quickly.”

            Mother gasped and clutched at her chest. “A feast. I must prepare a feast,” she said. “A week from today?” She extended a hand toward Father. “Can you have their quarters completed in seven days? You and Joseph?”

            My father and I were of one mind. We spoke in unison. “Surely, nothing is impossible with the Lord.”