That's IMPOSSIBLE!! (Yes, this is part of the Christmas Story)

8 Sivan

June 8

Dear Diary;

     Imma has shared our precious secret with Abba. It is rare for her to keep a secret from him for so long, but I guess she was afraid it would trouble the waters. He in turn has talked to my future in laws. Their reaction was not good.

      Yosef’s stern preoccupied air and his father Jacob’s condemnation have driven me to tears. Yosef’s mother, Hilde is a tubby woman, with iron gray hair. I used to think she had such a affable personality but when we met on market day in front of the fig and date stall she was as cross as two sticks. She glared at me then snatched at Imma’s sleeve to propel her away so that they could talk. What was I to do? Where was I to look? I kept my eyes averted until the stain of embarrassment receded from my cheeks and the multitude indifferently jostled me about. One hand shyly touched my slightly rounded abdomen. Oh baby, baby I wish I could protect you from the cruel stares and snide remarks of an unkind world!

Eventually I found myself beneath the baker’s awning, but even that delightful aroma did nothing to soothe my distressed spirits.

                     “A honey cake for you, Mary’am? You look like you need a little sweet to cheer you. One with date sauce drizzled on top perhaps?” I had walked on before I even realized it was to me the baker was calling.   I looked back then, and saw the look of compassionate concern on his face. I hardly know him, but he cared about me, a stranger. Thank you, Yahweh.

                       I continued to trudge despondently down the dusty street, past the heaps of fruit in their sprawling baskets, and past the mat and basket weavers stall. When I came to the booth where stacks of pottery were displayed, I stopped.

 I hardly noticed when a donkey, heavily laden with copper pots and pans clattered to a stop beside me, and the owner noisily began to unload his wares.

With arms folded as if in self protection, I stared off into the empty space just beyond the village, then slowly turned around and trudged down the other side of the street. I did not know whether or not to make our purchases since Imma was carrying the basket.

Eventually Imma located me. When I saw the tenderness in her troubled yet compassionate look, my throat filled. Hilde broke away from my mother and strode off. Disapproval stuck out from her like seams on a garment worn inside out.

Imma took me by the elbow and gently guided me away from the crowds.

“Let us return to our home,” she said gently. “Hanalei can make our purchases.”

                     It seemed to take us a long time to make our way through the hot, irritable pedestrians but the congestion eventually thinned and we soon trudged down the narrow winding path into our own neighbourhood. I slumped on our front stoop and buried my head in my arms, while Imma went to search for Abba. Hana came and sat down beside me, but I did not care to talk. She gently laid her hand on my leg, and we leaned into each other without having anything to say.

     A shadow fell across the path and Abba’s deep voice instructed Hana to attend to the shopping. She gracefully arose and I thought briefly about how tall and slender she was, like our aunt, Elsa Bet. I am small and softly rounded more like Emma. We both have large, dark eyes, though, and both of ours must have looked troubled at the time. I was left alone to face my father, although Imma hovered in the background.

                 “Mary’am, look at me.”

                 My gaze lifted upwards but it was hard to keep it steady; his face was so stern. He took a long breath and expelled it slowly while crossing his arms in front of him.

                      “Come. We must have a talk.” The leaves of the almond tree brushed against my arm as I followed him into our stone animal shelter, but I could not allow myself to think about the memories it stirred up. He leaned against the wall of the barn and I stood beside our goat, apprehensively stroking the smooth snow white hair on her nose. Imma was once again hovering somewhere behind her husband and my father.

     “Daughter, are you thinking clearly?”

     I uttered a little gasp, wondering what he could be getting at. It seemed to take so long before he continued his thought. “Your Mother and I have known for a long time how deeply you love El’ Elohim, and we appreciate it.” He paused, and Imma stepped forward to rest her hand on his arm. “I believe you would long to be the Mother of the Mashiach, but child, do you realize how impossible that would be? Your longing has turned into a fantasy which is making your betroths’ family very disturbed.”
     “Oh, but, Abba! It is true!” He held up his hand to silence me. “I know you believe it is true, and your Mother has told me why it seems possible or even probable to you.”             He reached out and took Imma‘s hand into his own brawny one. “I am sorry, daughter, but the Mashiach would not come to the likes of us who are of lowly birth.”