Chapter Eighteen
M
ary’s place. The rain fell in soft sheets. She shivered against the damp chill. She hadn’t been here in a while. The flowers were folding under the raindrops. The grass seemed to reach for the moisture. Dark clouds scudded overhead creating a foreboding natural sanctuary. After thirty years together, Joseph was dead. Her heart ached with grieving. The children were at home. Milcah had come, as she always does when her mother needed her, as had her husband and little ones. Thankfully, all of the children had come — except James and Jesus. They were together . . . somewhere. So many rumors about Jesus had found their way back to her. She was glad James was with Jesus and those chosen to be his apostles, but she wished desperately both were with her now. Jesus would know what to do. How would she get word to them? They were probably not too far away in some town or village, but which? There seemed to be so many. Meanwhile, the body of Joseph lay in her home. With the children and the children’s children, it had been too much. She sought escape, solitude. She sought comfort from God.
She sat on the stone where she had first encountered the . . . angel. The angel. Gabriel. She hadn’t thought of him in years. She recalled with warmth the exquisite moment of conception. She thought of subsequent events. Egypt. So many years. So much has happened. So little time it seemed. The rain had begun to soak her garments. The chill was growing deeper. Tears surged again. “Oh Joseph, my husband! Oh Jesus my son, where are you? Oh my God, please!”
“Mother?” The disembodied voice startled her. She thought at first it might be Gabriel yet again.
“Mother, are you all right?” It was Rhoda, her youngest. She had known that her mother had often resorted here. She had not wanted to intrude on her mother’s grief, yet she herself grieved. She entered the clearing and came to her mother. They held each other and wept. The rain continued to fall quietly. Mary was grateful for the warmth of her daughter’s body. She was real. So much reality. So little understanding. So far from anything good. She felt a pang of guilt, “except for this child,” she said aloud. And then the rain began to chill them both.
“Mother, I’m cold. Let us leave this place and go home.”
“This place is more of a home to me than you realize, my child.”
“Come Mother, we will both become ill. The house is warm. Joseph and Simon have come, and Sarah. Please now, do not resist me. You must come home and out of the rain.”
“The rain brings life to my broken heart,” said Mary.
“I know Mother, but you must come now. Let us hurry. Walk fast so our blood will pound. We need to warm up. Come!” Rhoda’s voice insisting, demanding. Her mother obeyed.
In the absence of Jesus and James, Simon and Milcah had taken charge of funeral arrangements. As many as possible of the extended family were contacted. They began to arrive and soon the house was crowded with family and close friends. The rain had ceased but the ground was wet and mud tracked into the house. Among all the other things she did, Milcah took charge of cleaning the mud as well. She enlisted Sarah and Joseph in the effort. Rhoda was left to be with their mother. That was her responsibility. “Just make her comfortable,” Milcah had instructed her. “You are her favorite,” this without bitterness, but resignation.
“That isn’t true, sister,” Rhoda had replied, “but I will do as you say. She needs someone close to her now.” And then in some frustration, “Where is Jesus? And James?”
“He is off preaching and healing somewhere, I suppose,” with restrained irritation.
“He is following the Father’s purposes sister,” replied Rhoda.
“Yes, I do know about that,” a retort. “You have heard the reports. They are saying he is insane!”
“Please Milcah, this is not the time for hard feelings.”
“I can’t help it! They should both be here helping with our mother. And helping with our . . “ her voice caught as tears welled into her eyes once again, “ . . our father!”
Rhoda put her arms around her sister and held her as she wept, but said nothing.
