Weavings

And the child grew and became strong in spirit, and he was in the wilderness till the day of his manifestation to Israel. Luke 1:80, RSV

Elizabeth nestles her infant son John, peering at his face in flickering candlelight—this future holy prophet who nevertheless awakens her in the dark hours with his hunger for her milk, his need to grow, his intent to leave her some day.

Elizabeth sighs. Her back aches, and tonight she cannot sleep anyway. She shifts John, whose eyes open for a moment, then close again as he settles once more into suckling.

At six months, John lights up Elizabeth and Zechariah’s life. This miracle child, this angelic gift still leaves them in awe. Elizabeth looks down at him again, draws a gnarled finger through his fine hair. She kisses the smoothness of his baby skin, so different from her own.

He is a child of Creation, this one, of sunlight and rainfall, of sand and stone. He already sits on his own, sifting sand through his fingers, studying the grains, watching the reflected light and colours that cause them to sparkle, something that Elizabeth hasn’t noticed in years. He laughs, pats the earth, wonders at insects, marvels at water, and Elizabeth worries about how she will keep up with him once he can crawl, once she can no longer contain him. He cries only when brought inside, reaching back for the light. Sometimes at night even, Elizabeth must bring him outdoors to calm him.

As if reading her thoughts, John opens his eyes, squirms, gives a cry and stretches toward the door, brightly lit with stars on this moonless night. Elizabeth appreciates the chance to move, to straighten old joints, and carries her son to the door.

Judea sparkles in the deep night, starlight kindling Elizabeth’s soul. She breathes deeply, holds John close. Has there ever been a night like this? The heavens blaze, an iridescent transparency drawing her out. And John squeals, almost jumps from her arms, reaching both hands up.

A new star hovers on the horizon. Impossible, Elizabeth thinks, then stops herself. What is impossible to a woman who gives birth at her age? What can ever be impossible again?

Before John was born she had loved the stories of Hannah and Sarah, but perhaps, she had to admit, had not taken them seriously.  Isolated in her childless status, she had struggled for years with frustration, enduring the imagined smug pity of mothers of babies, toddlers, youth. The stories had comforted her, but left her feeling alone too. Where was the truly childless woman in scripture?

With Zechariah, she had pursued the model of unfailing hospitality of Abraham and Sarah, had welcomed the sick, the lonely, the stranger, the grieving, and had come to find comfort in who she was, a woman of God, a childless mother to all, a giver, a person. She had said, “Here I am,” to any who came her way, had built her family of all those who approached, all those who needed her. They came then from near and far for advice, comfort, friendship and sanctuary. She realized at last that she would be alright without child, that God’s presence filled her anyway, comforted her, and called her.

On the day Zechariah had stumbled home from the Temple, mute, shocked, needing her, she had struggled to believe, to understand.  And then the pregnancy had followed, unbelievable, impossible, true.

The women, the whole community had celebrated Elizabeth’s pregnancy, even through Zechariah’s continued silence. Not that anyone had known about it at first of course. For the first five months, Elizabeth had hardly believed it was happening, and had hidden herself, afraid that she would lose the child, until the day of Mary’s arrival.

She looks down at her wide awake baby, her unexpected-expected one. And thinks of Mary.

Elizabeth had been pounding grain in the enclosure behind the house. The sensation calmed her, she could get lost in the rhythm and the heat, sweat evaporating in the dry breezy air. But she knew Mary was there even before she heard her call, a sure knowledge, a certainty, and she had turned, dropped the pestle and ran.  Elizabeth had felt herself carried on wings, despite her heaviness, despite her age, to her young cousin.

And John had leapt within her, taking her breath. Elizabeth knew then her baby was safe, that there was salvation within the woman before her, not just for Elizabeth, so long ignored because of her barrenness, but for all forgotten women, for all the downtrodden, excluded, ridiculed, harassed. She had reached out to Mary, had felt her baby leap again and had hailed the young woman.

And Mary had answered her, recognized her son, the first woman to do so. Mary had reached her hands out to Elizabeth’s belly, filling it with fire and hope. Elizabeth’s soul too had magnified the Lord even as Mary said the words. For women do not operate alone. No one does.

Everything had come clear to Elizabeth all at once. Like a vision, a tilting of the world, eternity stretched behind her and ahead, her whole history and that of her people suddenly coming into focus. Sarah laughing, and Hannah beseeching, and Abraham and Moses saying, “Here I am, here I am,” for the Lord was with them all.

“Here I am.” Elizabeth’s heart had whispered too, even as Mary’s words catapulted through her and out to the world, words that she would not forget even if Zechariah did not write them down, did not record them as he did everything in these days. And indeed she realized that it was possible to have God within her, and God outside of her. That her soul existed both as hers and as God’s, just as Mary remained full of God, full of grace, even as Mary remained Mary.

Elizabeth had gathered her cousin to her, knowing that the young woman would be punished for her pregnancy, knowing that the road ahead would be worse for Mary than it had been for her, Elizabeth, the barren one. For Mary had chosen courage. Mary had chosen risk. To be pregnant before marriage. To be pregnant with God. The world stretched lonely and dangerous if Joseph did not understand.

The two women had prepared each other, stood before their God, talked long into the night, breaking the silence that had wrapped itself around Elizabeth ever since she had conceived and Zechariah had lost his voice to the angel.

And on that night when finally the pains had assaulted Elizabeth and to her joy, to her sorrow, she had brought a yelling, squalling John out of her forever into the world in a splash of water and blood, Mary had been with her, had caught the infant in her own hands and held him briefly to her own belly before handing him over still soaked, still soiled, this boy who loved sand and water, to his mother Elizabeth, for whom the hut had exploded with stars, with sun, with love, with God.

The next day Mary had left early, prepared, ready.

And now on this bright star-scoured night, Elizabeth cannot turn her thoughts away from Mary. Her time would be close.

No, she realizes, looking at the star, her time is now.

John grows quiet, transfixed by the night sky, eyes wide as if he sees through it, as if he sees beyond it. In the distance, low down over the fields, the starlight shines brighter than anything Elizabeth has seen.  She lowers herself to the sandy earth, stands John on her lap as he strains to move toward the light. A warm hand on her shoulder tells her Zechariah has joined them. He drapes a blanket around his wife and child, then crouches beside them, all three facing the bright east.

The stars sparkle silent in the still air, all sound disappearing into the expectant void.  They breathe together, this small family, in rhythm with that other family, and Elizabeth feels her belly tighten and expand with every prayer she sends to Mary. And then it seems as if the whole sky expands, grows, and John gives a leap, and Elizabeth knows, she knows, as the tears fall down her face, as she feels Zechariah’s grip, that eternity has come.

“Here I am,” she whispers to John, to God, to Mary, to the world. “Here I am.” And hears it echo back to her from the stars, from the world, from John, from Mary, from God.