God and I had settled on an uneasy truce a long time ago. After years and years of nothing but silence, I just stopped asking. No more “Hello? Hello? Are you there? Hello?” And then listening to the stifling silence. Zechariah, the stubborn fool, still went to Temple, still lit the candles and the incense, still did his duties as the temple priest with the diligence of any devoted worker bee. But I, I just couldn’t pretend any more. I had grown up with Roman soldiers breathing down my neck, and I endured. When the drought came and we went hungry, I endured. When my brothers went off to fight and never came back, I endured. When they ransacked the village, I endured. When I was told that I would marry Zechariah, still, I endured. But after asking and asking, for almost twenty five years, every month, my cycle would come and go, the moon would wane and I would hope that maybe this once I’d finally get what I’ve been asking for, and then, as the moon waxed, I’d be devastated once again. I endured.
Until one night, when the way of women returned to me once again, I simply could endure no longer. Like the Israelites before me, I’d been asking “how long,” and like the Israelites before me, I, too, had given up the faith. No one else knew, of course, I still kept a proper house, maintained the traditions, went to Temple. It was bad enough that they knew that I was not worth the blessing of a child, even worse if I let them see it get to me. Worse than the shaking of the heads and the silent judgment when I went in to market was the pity. I couldn’t stand one more pregnant woman with two on her hip asking me, “and how ARE you?” My friends married. Had children so easily. They’d sneeze and get pregnant. Then they got busy. Forgot about me. They complained about all the laundry, the too many mouths to feed, until they saw the longing in my face, saw me turn to the empty cradle gathering dust in the corner. After the empty encouragement that my time would come too, there would only be lots of awkward apologies and forced smiles.Then they didn’t come around anymore. They stopped seeing me altogether.
And so, one night, I took that cradle and simply threw it in the fire. It blazed and it burned, and with it, my faith. I stopped asking after that. I became invisible.
I kept the house. I milked the goats. I woke every morning and prepared the bread. Zechariah would have his turn at the Temple, but I would stay home, alone. I was done showing up for a God who’d never shown up for me. I made myself invisible.
And then, one day, Zechariah came home, and after his long journey, I was sure he’d complain about the weeds in the yard, the mess in the chicken coop, the dust in the doorway. I hadn’t been feeling well, and things were neglected. I was so tired all the time. Something was wrong with the eggs. The stew tasted sour. I couldn’t keep anything down. But when he came home, he raced past the weeds, the chicken coop, the pile of dirty laundry in the corner and he embraced me so hard I thought he’d snap me in two. “What has gotten in to you?” I asked. But he was dumbfounded. He just touched my belly, then bent down and kissed it, and got up and embraced me again. I thought he’d gone mad. And then I was the one who was mad. How dare he, after all this time, tease me for all that I could not give him? Tease me for all that God could or would not give me?
That’s when I felt the first flutters. Like butterflies. Like when you feel really nervous before speaking in public. A churning. A gentle tapping from the inside, a faith germinated out of barren soil. “Hello. I’m here.”
Like Sarah, I laughed. Like Rebekah, I asked. Like Rachel, I prayed. Like Hannah, I pledged this child to the Lord.
But Zechariah, he stayed quiet. He waited and watched. He measured my belly as it grew. He rubbed my feet.
All the girls of the village, the ones who got pregnant as easy as sneezing, came to congratulate me, to wish me well, to ask me what I’d finally done to lift the curse.
I stayed inside.
As Zechariah was silent around me, so I was silent before the Lord. Finally, after all this time, God would give me joy? None of it made sense. I was lost and confused. Hurt and terrified. I was no puppet to be used as some kind of object lesson. My life was more than just some “sign” for the rest of the world. How dare God deny me this gift until now, just to fulfill some prophesy, just to show the Israelites that their Messiah was coming. Everything wasn’t just fixed between God and I just because I’d finally been given what had been promised. After all, God, what took you so long? Just because you removed my disgrace from the people, doesn’t make everything all better between us.
I stayed inside. Alone. Invisible. But there was this little ball of life, growing inside me, getting stronger each day.
It wasn’t until she came to my door, dusty, ragged, alone. I hadn’t seen her since she was a small child, playing with her dolls, drawing pictures in the sand, singing nursery rhymes with her mother. And then one day, there she was, not much more than a child even now, looking scared, looking desperate. She had a kind of frantic energy that she didn’t know what to do with. I invited her in. She took a step forward. And then another. Then she suddenly turned on her heel and raced out. Three times she did this. And each time she got closer, the baby kicked within me.
“Mary,” I said, “What are you doing here? Where is your mother? Where is Joseph? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t. I can’t. I just can’t” she said.
Finally I practically dragged her in. She sat down. She got back up. She paced and sat down again. I brought her some water. She said, “Thank you.” She said, “Hello.”
And that’s when the baby leaped. Literally, leaped. You could see the bumps of his knees and elbows pop out through my skin. I thought he’d bruise my kidneys. I thought he’d crush my bladder. The baby was letting me know that he saw.
With Mary’s hello, it all came back. God’s love. God’s promise. God’s presence. My skin tingled. My lungs filled. The light came back to my eyes.
“You sneezed, haven’t you, Mary?” I asked.
“Uh, What?” She said.
I giggled at my own joke, “You are with child.”
“Yes.” She said. Quiet. She stared at the ground. Her eyes welled with tears. She looked at me.
And then the song just burst from me. Years of silence, years of frustration, years of feeling abandoned by my God, but in that moment, I was seen, and so, I sang, “Blessed are you among women! And blessed is the fruit of your womb!”
What a ridiculous thing to say to a young, poor, unwed Palestinian girl.
But with Mary’s greeting, with her quiet “hello,” she saw me. She saw the struggle of my whole life, and she shared her own.
It wasn’t that the young village wives wouldn’t have to pity me any more. It wasn’t that I was no longer a disgrace to Zechariah, to my whole family. It wasn’t even that God finally gave me what I’d been asking for all this time. It was the gift of her presence, of her witness to me, of our mutual struggles, that made me astonished, made me sing out, finally, a question, just a question, to God: “But why am I so favored that the mother of my Lord should come to me?”
After feeling abandoned by God, left alone in my barrenness, after years of our silent truce, it wasn’t the answered prayer that brought back my faith, but the simple greeting of a young peasant girl, dirty and tired from her travels, terrified with the burden she must carry, exhilarated by the mystery and hope of it all, that brought me back to myself, that brought me back to God. How is it that this young woman can face what God has brought her with such grace, with such faith?
Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill God’s promises to her. Blessed is she who didn’t give up on God, even when God gave her what she felt she could not bear. Blessed is she who received what God has given her, even when all that she’s planned on and the future she’s hoped for comes crashing down all around. Blessed is she who stays with God, even when things get hard. Even when things don’t go as you planned. Even when people make judgments and pity you and ignore you in the grocery store. Even when you feel invisible.
It wasn’t that God finally gave me a baby that brought me back. It was Mary’s greeting to me. It was Mary’s hello. When she came to my door, when she looked me in the eye, when she brought her own troubles, when she told me, “Hello,” all God’s gifts came rushing back to me. I remembered who I was. How I’d been blessed my whole life. How God has been there, seeing me, all along. How there was this new life, leaping with joy.
“Hello,” I said to God. “Hello.”
Thanks be to God.
Thank you, Pastor Jenn. 🙏
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