that each time he judges himself, he must acknowledge his limitations in human form and forgive himself. That is the grace of our humility, an acceptance of who we are on this earth. Until we are able to do this, over and over, we suffer our own judgment, and Yeshua is a harsh judge of his humanness.”
Iyar, 3773
Perhaps the counsel of the Tzadokim, so restrictive in my eyes before, is wise after all. Desire overwhelmed wisdom for I sought the comfort of my wife’s embrace and now our precious child threatens to emerge unripe. Awash with horrid images of losing them both, my days fill with fear. No amount of fasting and meditation relieves the pain, nor the lust. What is wrong with me? Even swollen with our child, it is all I can do to maintain my composure as I minister to her needs. Although Abba tries to reassure me that I am not at fault for Mary’s premature labor, Ima must be of much sturdier constitution than my delicate wife.
Ironic–Mary insisted our child’s birth would be in late Iyar. I pray it is so for I can tolerate our separation no longer. My beloved wife, so alive and vital, yearns to be out in nature, but the inclement weather keeps her imprisoned in our bedchambers, while the flame of my guilt keeps me in solitary confinement, unable to connect with those I love. Separated from the Divine, sacred union is only possible in communion with Mary. Until that day we meet again as one, I am lost in the void.
Pale gray morning light peeks through our bedroom window. I roll carefully out of bed, reaching down to girdle the weight of my unborn child. Pushed out by my large womb, the elestial stone protrudes with my navel. The tiles under my feet feel so refreshingly cool that standing up free from the confines of my bed becomes a treasured moment. Poor Yeshua finally sleeps after being up with me all night.
Slowly, I make my way through the courtyard that separates our chambers from the chamam, stopping occasionally to rest against the wall. Through my difficult confinement, my husband has suffered. Refusing all but my most chaste affections, he fasts and meditates constantly. Perhaps connecting to the One is something a person comes to crave like those who desperately seek kodeia, the essence of poppies.
The baby kicks me sharply in the side so I hurry to the betshimush. Afterward, I rest on a bench, Teoma walks in, rubbing his face and eyes vigorously. Perhaps he slept poorly, overwrought by the grief he has caused his own family in choosing not to take a wife. Yeshua keeps reassuring us all that his friend’s decision is for the higher good, whatever that means. Nevertheless, it seems a shame for such an attractive and, I assume, virile man not to experience married life.
My cumbersome attempt to stand catches his attention.
“I am sorry; I didn’t know anyone was in here…Mary?” Turning away from me, he tries to cover himself. How could he mistake the only pregnant woman in the house?
“Good morning, Teoma. I was just leaving, but it will take me a moment.” I turn and begin waddling away, barely able to walk around my daughter’s head.
“Wait! I’ll help you back to your room.” Feeling that familiar tightening, I nod and brace myself against the cool tile.
While he relieves himself another sharp contraction induces a gush of warm liquid to flow down my leg and a third nearly brings me to my knees. I cry out. Teoma rushes out of the betshimush.
“Mary, what is happening?”
“Teoma,” I pant, as the last contraction slowly ends, “I think my daughter has decided to be born.” Picking me up from my crouched and sodden state, he rushes so quickly that we must stop twice so that I might breathe through the contractions. Linens strewn across the floor, his loincloth twisted, Yeshua sleeps fitfully at night.
“Get up! Mary is having the baby!” Teoma yells and my poor husband leaps out of bed nearly tripping on the linens.
Another sharp contraction has me clinging to Teoma’s neck, my breath ragged. Yeshua tries to get him to put me on the bed, but I resist. “I am soaked, I need to change first.”
“For goodness sakes, Mary. Do not worry about the bed!”
“Please just put me down.”
“No, Mary, I’ll carry you until Yeshua prepares the bed.”
“Please, I want to stand.” Teoma carefully sets me on my feet. I hold onto his arm for a moment, “Sorry, I made a mess of you,” but the next contraction forces me to crouch.
Yeshua rushes over to lift me to my feet, “Mary, do not push.” The pressure so great, I must push. A gentle hayye caresses my back, as the angel guides me to kneel—chest to the floor—and I find much relief.
The men stand over me in their nightclothes, not knowing what to do. “Teoma, will you please get me a cushion for my head and get Ima Miriam? Yeshua, perhaps you could get me a fresh garment before visiting the betshimush.”
Teoma secures me a cushion before giving Yeshua a rough pat on the shoulder. “Make haste, your wife is having a baby!”
When he leaves, Yeshua drops to his knees beside me, his tears melting the rigid aura that has kept his emotions in and me out. Thank The One.
“This past month has been so difficult to bear. Not only the labor and the restrictions, but…,” I hesitate, wanting to be honest with him, “but it has been as if we were childhood friends, not husband and wife.”
His tears pour anew as he lies next to me. “It was too difficult to be with you as a husband and also be a healer.”
“The house is full of healers, but you are my only husband.”
He kisses me tenderly, finally sensuously, not chastely. Lying on my side, I respond with passion, for it has been too long. We are both crying and kissing when Miriam walks in followed by servants.
“My dears, it is wonderful to see that you have made up, but I do not think the baby should be delivered on the cold floor.” Laughing, she instructs the women to dress me. “Now, son, go to the betshimush and get ready for a long day.”
When Yeshua returns, he takes me to walk in the gardens. Breakfast has been laid out for us and he eats lightly, but I find it difficult to consume much. All through the morning the contractions get stronger and closer together. By noon, I have not made much progress.
Frustrated, I ask to lie down on the hammock. Yeshua carefully helps me before climbing in, looking nearly as tired as I feel. Gathering me into his arms, he kisses me, “Do not lose faith, love. This is why it is called labor.” I only manage a half-hearted smile. After a month of bed rest, I am in poor condition for this work.
In moments his breathing slows and a soft snore confirms he sleeps. At least one of us will be rested. Unfortunately, he’s not the one who has to push the baby out. More attuned to him than me, the baby lies quietly. Memories of Yeshua talking and singing to her, his mouth close to my belly, from the moment I conceived, brings a smile to my lips. So even still within me, she sleeps now with her father. I caress my lower belly and she moves gently against me like a kitten. Yeshua stretches his long legs over mine. Peaceful gratitude carries me through a long afternoon evenly interrupted by contractions.
