I didn’t expect to feel so crazy.
The only thing I am sure of is that I am pregnant. That much is clear. Pregnant with who (heavens, or what? Who am I to know how a Messiah would choose to appear?) is a mystery. Mysteries require faith. And waiting. Oh God — an awful lot of waiting.
I pray for more faith.
How I got pregnant … well, that is another mystery. Oddly, not a mystery to the women in the village who point and whisper behind their hands, not a mystery to the men who mock Joseph, laughing and making eyes behind his back — to them it’s really, really clear. Pregnant
Mary. The scoffers have certainly figured it out. I suppose they usually think they do.
I pray for more faith.
I barely remember the encounter. It was an ordinary afternoon. I can’t remember the weather — except that it couldn’t have been raining because I was outside. Some younger children were playing a game somewhere — I could hear them. I looked at the sky, aware that for the first time that day I was alone, deliciously alone and I could finally consider this betrothal to Joseph.
And then suddenly I wasn’t alone. I was surrounded by a Presence. What could I call it? Light? Love? It wasn’t like anything I could name. The Presence called himself the angel Gabriel. And here is the strange part, the part that comforts me at night, holding the memory to my expanding middle like a warm blanket: in that sweet encounter the world and all that is in it seemed half real — even secondary. What was real, what was true was not the trees or the grass or even the children laughing in the distance — what was real was that which surrounded me, asking for my consent in a scandalously visible and common state that somehow, this time, is supposed to be holy.
I pray for more faith.
I couldn’t have imagined it, fleeting as it was. Because I am sure that I am pregnant, as the neighbors remind each other when they think I can’t hear.
Perhaps I am more that they say at this moment. Perhaps the angel was right, that I am blessed, that I have found favor with God. Perhaps as God’s law appears to be broken, it is fulfilled. Perhaps by losing my life, I will find it?
Oh Lord, my heart never wants to sacrifice. I want comfort and answers. I want to know how on earth (heaven?) You think this could possibly use me to accomplish anything at all. Give me eyes to see what I can remember, and show me how to treasure it in my heart. I am frightened.
ABIGAIL KILLEEN attends Grace Episcopal Church in Bath and is an assistant professor of theater in the Department of Theater and Dance at Bowdoin College in Brunswick.
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