My relatives in Bethlehem scolded and questioned me for allowing Mary to vow herself to virginity. Every Jewish mother hoped to be the mother of the Messiah. Mary’s permanent virginity would assure us that the Messiah would not come from our line, let alone a regular grandchild.
“Anne, you allow her to enter the Temple!” my mother exclaimed. “Tell Joachim he must change his mind. You want your daughter to marry. A woman who is without children is better off dead.”
I never said anything to my mother when she spoke to me. I only looked down at my hands. I never had the courage to tell her what I believed. That Mary was special and favored by Elohim; that Joachim and I were barren for twenty years before we had Mary and we were due to give back to Elohim what He had finally given to us.
Even when Joachim took me as his wife, I never said anything to my mother’s grumbling. She was disappointed that a poor shepherd was the best offer of marriage that I had. I was at the late age of sixteen when Joachim offered almost his whole income for my bride price. “You will be poor and unclean with such a man,” Mother said.
Again, I never responded to my mother. I never explained to her that Joachim had been promoted as the chief shepherd of the Temple in Jerusalem. He would oversee the provisions of animal sacrifices in the Temple. When the feast of Passover came, Joachim would earn a great income as he sold all of his unblemished lambs for the hundreds of sacrifices.
Joachim and I moved to Jerusalem after we married. And Joachim did well for us. He was respected by all we knew. But we discovered that I was barren. For twenty years, Joachim and I lived in Jerusalem without a child. My mother blamed my barrenness on my marriage to a poor shepherd. She complained that she would never receive grandchildren from me.
I despaired. Joachim went to the desert to fast for a few days for the intent of a child. He did not come back for several more days, so I assumed he had abandoned me, ashamed to have me as his wife. I wondered why El Shaddai had let me be born.
But a man came to me. He had perfect skin and flawless hair. He radiated light and told me that I would soon have a daughter. He must have been Elohim’s messenger. An angel. For Joachim returned to Jerusalem to tell me that a similar man told him the very same thing.
Nine months later, we had Mary.
It was a miraculous pregnancy, like those of the matriarchs of Israel! Like Sarah and Rachel and Hannah! Only we did not have a son.
Mary was my jewel. My crown. She was a good child. Quiet, but not shy. Hard-working and diligent. She loved Adonai above all else. She never once disrespected me. She never once lied to me. She listened passionately to anything Joachim or I taught her about Elohim and the scriptures. She loved the Temple that we lived right next to. We presented her to the Temple when she was very young, and Mary lived in the house of Adonai as a faithful virgin interceding for Israel.
Indeed, my parents disliked it, but they had now passed to the land of the dead; to Sheol. When Mary left the Temple at twelve years old, as custom, we moved from Jerusalem to Nazareth. Joachim retired from his work at the Temple and our little family came to live with Joachim’s brother. Now, my husband simply helped with the shepherding of flocks with his brother and nephews. Mary and I helped with the household tasks and the children.
But Mary. Mary would soon move into her husband’s house. I would not have grandchildren, but I prayed fervently that Mary’s marriage to Joseph would bear some sort of fruit that pleased Adonai our Elohim.
As we stood in the bedroom, I examined Mary. She was trembling. Her breath sounded shivered and her calloused hands shook. She pressed both of her hands to her stomach and gulped. Her eyes danced from me to Joachim to Joseph. Then back to me again.
“Speak, Mary,” Joachim said, leaning all of his weight on his staff, the top of which nearly touched the ceiling.
“Is something ailing you?” I asked.
Mary blinked several times, her long eyelashes touching her cheeks.
“Does something ail you?” I asked again with increased worry. I tended to repeat myself, for I rarely felt heard.
“Hush, Anne,” Joachim said to me. “Let our daughter tell us why she has requested our presence here.”
“Abba,” Mary began in a clear voice. It was a gentle voice, but not quiet. “Ima.” Her oval face nodded at me. She took a deep breath. “Joseph.” She drew out the length of his name. “I am with child.”