The Handmaid and the Carpenter (5 page)

“Do not be afraid,” the angel said. “You have found great favor with God. Now you have conceived in your womb and will bear a son.”

But these words! What was he saying? Mary found her voice and spoke most strongly. “How can this be? I have known no man!” Then she gasped and closed her eyes against the vision of herself sitting in the water, her tunic floating about her.

The angel said, “The Holy Spirit will come unto you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. Therefore the One born unto you will be the Son of God, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”

Mary lay her hand over her throat. Now her voice was barely a whisper. “It is not possible.”

“With God, all things are possible,” said the angel. “Behold, your cousin Elizabeth was barren, but she has conceived a child and is now in her sixth month. I bid you go to Judea, where you will see for yourself.”

“I shall,” Mary said, and she meant with her words to communicate her disbelief, her intention to go to Judea to disprove the angel’s words. But at that moment her spirit lifted and her heart opened, and there came to her a great sense of relief. And with it came irrefutable knowledge. She understood that what the angel had told her was true, even as the reddening sky outside her window was true. As such, it was not hers to accept or reject. It was a miracle given her by God, told to her by his messenger. She lay her hands in her lap. “I am the handmaid of the Lord,” she said. “Let it be with me according to your word.”

From behind her, she heard her mother’s voice. “Mary? To whom are you speaking?” Anne moved closer, her face full of concern. “Oh, Mary, you must be with fever that your face glows so!” She moved quickly to kneel beside her daughter and put her hand against Mary’s forehead. Then Anne grew perplexed, saying, “Yet you are cool to my touch.” She lay the back of her fingers against one of Mary’s cheeks, then the other.

Mary put her hand over her mother’s and looked at her with great tenderness. “Mother,” she said. “There is something I must tell you.”

“HAVE YOU ALL YOU NEED?”
Mary’s mother asked the next day. Joachim nodded. He was full of sorrow and confusion, as he had been since Anne told him of the angel who had come to their daughter. But he had agreed to accompany Mary to Judea.

“Choose your words well when you speak to Joseph and his family,” Joachim told his wife.

Anne smiled. “Of course I shall. Remember that I, too, know of messages from angels.”

“Mother,” Mary said. She regretted suddenly not having revealed everything that had happened to her yesterday. She had not told Anne about the Greek, though this was not to deceive her mother but to protect her. Now Mary wondered if she had been wrong in this, if she should tell her mother of that experience after all. And surely she should offer some words that her mother might bring to Joseph. But no words would come.

Anne embraced Mary, then kissed her forehead. “Stay with Elizabeth and help her until her child is born.”

Mary understood. It would take long for a resolution to be agreed upon. Joseph would not yet be receptive to any words from her. She would wait on the will of God, and hope with all her heart for Joseph’s understanding.

“Are you ready, my daughter?” Joachim asked. Their donkey, loaded with supplies, shook his head against a fly, and his harness jingled. There was a sad gaiety in the sound: the excitement of a journey tempered by the reason for it.

Mary nodded, and then she and her father began their long walk south. It would take four days or more to arrive at the home of Zechariah, the ancient priest, and his equally elderly wife, Elizabeth, Mary’s cousin, whom the angel had vowed was with child. For a long while Mary and her father did not speak, each busy with thoughts of the journey ahead, and beyond.

CHAPTER SIX

Judea

Mary

HEY CAME OUT OF SAMARIA AND INTO THE
hills of Judea in late afternoon and, tired and thirsty, made their way to the house of Elizabeth and Zechariah, who lived just outside of Jerusalem. Joachim watered and tethered the donkey, and Mary pushed open the door of the house, calling her cousin’s name.

Elizabeth appeared and, beaming, rushed forward to greet her visitors. “Joachim! Mary! How wonderful to see you!” She stopped suddenly and put her hand to her side, and Mary saw that what the angel had said of Elizabeth was true. “My child moved so within me!” Elizabeth said, laughing. She moved to embrace Joachim and then took Mary’s face between her hands, smiled, and touched foreheads with her. Then her face grew full of wonder as she said, “You, too, are with child! Bless you and the fruit of your womb!”

Mary stepped back, saying nothing. Beside her, her father hung his head.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “And I see, too, that your child will be most exceptional! Oh, Mary! How am I so blessed that the mother of my Lord has come to visit me? Even the child in my womb leapt with knowing when he heard your greeting! Joachim, Joachim, is it not wonderful?”

Joachim lifted his head and nodded at Elizabeth. He did not speak. Tears shone in his eyes.

Mary’s heart ached for her father, who, despite their many talks on their journey, did not know what to think or whom to believe. All he knew was that his daughter, his most cherished, was with child, thus endangering both herself and her family. Also, albeit through no fault of her own, she had spoiled her betrothal, about which he had so often and so widely bragged. He feared what would happen when she returned. Women accused of adultery were stoned.

Elizabeth lay her hand over her heart and spoke softly to Mary. “And you are blessed, too, to believe that what the Lord has said will be accomplished.”

A deep feeling of love came over Mary then, and with it came a sense of great confidence. She would now be mother to her father, and comfort him. She stood straighter. “Yes, Elizabeth. And my soul magnifies God in praise of him. For he has come to me, a girl who is poor and undistinguished in any way. Despite my circumstances, he has honored me most profoundly, and the child within me is his own. He is all mighty, and for generations many have feared him because he has brought down those who are prideful; even rulers have fallen from their thrones. But in me, he has lifted up the humble. Through me, he will satisfy the hungry. Because of my child, he will have shown Israel mercy, as promised. From now on I shall be not scorned but called blessed, even as you have called me so. I am full of grace.”

Now Joachim wept openly, and Mary turned to embrace him. “Do not despair, Father,” she said. “I am strong and happy and clear in my mind. Take your rest and nourishment here, and then leave me with Elizabeth; you see that she understands.”

“HOW GOES IT
with your mother?” Elizabeth asked Mary early the next morning. Joachim had left a short while ago, fortified by a breakfast of hummus and flatbread and grapes, and now she and her cousin sat in the as-yet empty courtyard, the sun bright above them. Mary knew what Elizabeth meant by her question.
What does your mother think about all of this?

“She, too, was visited by an angel, and in this way told she was with child,” Mary said. She was weary to her bones; she had slept poorly, and the exalted confidence she’d felt yesterday was lacking in her this morning. Already she missed her father. She missed Joseph. She missed her mother and her friends.

“Angels come to many, though not all have the courage—or the wisdom—to speak of it,” Elizabeth said.

Mary looked over at her. Her face was old and lined but her eyes clear and wise. She was an intuitionist and an oneiromancer, as well as a great healer. She was known in Judea as the one to come to when one was desperate, when nothing else had worked. Elizabeth had taught Mary’s mother much of what she knew about healing, as Anne had then taught Mary. For generations, it had run strong in both sides of Mary’s family, such gifts for curing, such strong perceptive abilities.

Elizabeth’s compassion was well known, too; those she could not cure she would stay with as they died, easing them back into God’s hands. So for all her homesickness, Mary was glad to be with Elizabeth. Mary would help with chores as Elizabeth’s time drew nigh, and in return she would be comforted and consoled by her cousin. And educated! Mary knew that now she would pay close attention to the ways of the woman with child, especially when the baby was born. Mary had heard the cries of women in labor, had seen that sometimes the baby died, or the mother, or, saddest of all, both.

She shivered at the idea despite the heat, and Elizabeth, knowing her thoughts, smiled kindly at her. “There is much to consider, my child. But in this, as in all things, each day comes one at a time. No matter our urging, the crops will not grow but according to their own schedule. You will learn patience. You will come to understand the thing that has happened to you, and why. You will learn what to expect when your own time comes; I will teach you ways of easing discomfort. When you return home, it will be not as a child but as a woman.”

Mary nodded, relieved, but then began to weep. She surprised herself in this. “Forgive me,” she said, the urge to laugh vying with the urge to cry harder.

Elizabeth reached out to put her hand on Mary’s shoulder. “It is the way of women with child, that their emotions run strong and with great variation. Much has been thrust upon you. Yet be not ashamed, and ask no one’s forgiveness.” She leaned closer to Mary. “For I say to you again, you are blessed.”

Mary smiled gratefully.

“Tell me again of the angel,” Elizabeth said, leaning back on her hands and showing Mary a face full of eagerness, as though she were a child ready to hear her favorite story.

Once more Mary described the event as best she could, and Elizabeth listened carefully and with great pleasure. Her eyes did not widen in awe, she did not scoff and decry Mary’s words, she did not protest the likelihood of such an event. She knew of aberrant voices of instruction, of events beyond understanding. And when Mary had finished her story, Elizabeth said simply, “So be it. Now let us eat, for my child demands nourishment.” She rose to go back inside, and Mary followed her.

THE WEEKS PASSED.
Oftentimes when he arrived home, Zechariah brought pomegranate juice from the marketplace for Elizabeth. It was her favorite, and he spoiled her now. He offered her back rubs every night, and also he washed her feet, since she could no longer reach past her swollen middle to do it herself. Across from her at the table, he gazed upon her with deep love, seeing not just Elizabeth but their nascent family. He had lost his voice, and so he spoke neither to Mary nor Elizabeth; but no words were needed to communicate his rich devotion.

Mary watched all this with a heavy heart. Would that she were so tenderly cared for by her own husband! For she now felt unwell much of the time. Early every morning she went quietly out into the field behind the house and vomited. The herbs she knew about for treating nausea did not work for her now. She did not speak of her illness to her hosts, for she had been brought there to assist them. Instead, she tiptoed back into the house and returned to her pallet. Later, when Zechariah and Elizabeth ate breakfast, Mary joined them, eating as well as she could the foods Elizabeth insisted were necessary for the growing child inside her: Spinach. Figs. Almonds and eggs.

Elizabeth napped often in the day, and Mary napped, too, sleeping for long hours and dreaming of home. One afternoon, dreaming of sitting beside her mother in the courtyard as they wove with their shuttles, Mary awakened herself weeping. When she opened her eyes, she saw Elizabeth kneeling quietly beside her. She sat up hastily, embarrassed that she had disturbed her cousin’s rest, which she now badly needed—her time was close. She tried to compose herself, but the tears would not stop.

“It seems we are in for a summer storm,” Elizabeth said, smiling, and her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Have no fear; I mind your tears not at all. It will be a pleasure to attend to you, after you have cared for me so long and so well.”

“I know not why I weep,” Mary said.

With great care, Elizabeth lowered herself into a sitting position. “Is it such a surprise that a young wife would miss her husband?”

Mary wiped at her eyes, shaking her head. “No.”

“Of
course
‘no’!”

“But Elizabeth, I not only miss him, I am full of regret about dishonoring him! I did not cherish him. I resented our betrothal. I told my friends he was too lean, too stern, too bound by tradition. Often I walked in sadness and terrible confusion. I was not grateful for my good fortune, I did not appreciate enough the happy times I had with him, I felt that I was being robbed of my girlhood, of my
youth
!” She began to weep again, loudly. “Oh, Elizabeth, what am I to do? I was undeserving of such love!”

Elizabeth sat quietly for a time. Then she said, “I know well what we must do. First we must call for the slave whips of Herod, that you might more fully punish yourself.”

“I speak the truth!” Mary said. “And there is more.” She hesitated, then told Elizabeth of what had happened at the creek, how the man had come into the water with her, how only by the miracle given by God was her folly converted to a blessing.

Now Elizabeth’s voice grew warm and kind. “Ah, Mary. It was not this unfortunate incident that made you with child! Rather it is the miracle the angel spoke of that brought life to your womb. Few are the people who understand and truly accept miracles; let yourself, at least, be one of them!

“As for Joseph, do you think you are the first to feel this way? Many young women suffer such pangs of doubt! One night, just after I was betrothed to Zechariah, I wept myself unto illness, to think that I would so soon be lost. For that is how I thought of it: in marriage, I would be lost to myself, all my longings and desires subject to the rule of my husband.”

“Yes,” Mary said.

“Yet we long to be lost in the love of another human being; this also is true, no? For in this way, we are found.” Elizabeth reached out and gently touched Mary’s cheek. “Such are the ways of life and love. You will come to see how we live so paradoxically. We are happy, yet we are sad. We become enraged by our beloved because he
is
our beloved. We look forward to something, yet we are full of dread. We long for summer in winter, and winter in summer. What a contrary species are we! Better we should be cattle, at peace in the fields!” She grimaced and Mary laughed.

“But mostly in this life,” Elizabeth said, “we are continually lifted by the love of God, by the miracles he so freely bestows upon us, and by his nearness to us.”

Mary fell silent, thinking, then asked, “But how will Joseph ever believe me, that I am a virgin and yet with child?”

“It is a mountain that has risen in your path, it is true. It would be natural for Joseph to doubt you, even as Zechariah first doubted me. When I told him of the angel appearing to tell me I was with child, he became angry and shouted that I had long been barren. And he reminded me that my years for childbearing were now long past. But then, on the day when he had been chosen to burn incense in the holy place, the angel came to him in the synagogue, telling him that in my womb was a child who would be called John. Yet Zechariah doubted even the angel’s words. He questioned him and asked for a sign! Imagine!”

Mary cast her eyes downward, remembering her own questioning of the angel who had appeared to her.

“Yes, my husband, the priest, doubted the truth of the angel’s words! And so the angel punished Zechariah. When he came out to speak to the people who had gathered for prayer, he realized he had been struck dumb. There was his sign! The angel said Zechariah will recover his voice when the child is born and named. It is for this reason that my husband does not speak. He was full of worry that I might reveal to you the circumstances of his condition, for he is shamed by the appalling lack of faith he showed. I trust you will not betray my confidence.”