only know him as a man. We are here to experience love, thus to redeem ourselves, not to save others.”
“Well, Mary, I am destined to serve him and his mission. Right now that includes serving you and Sarah.”
Suddenly I realize why we are here, “Teoma, you can continue to serve us from wherever you are. Let us meditate for a moment.”
“What shall I do?”
“Just follow my breath and be still.” In a pillar of white light, Archangel Gavriel shows me how to unite us with silver cords of connection. Teoma gasps when the gossamer light threads its way into his heart. “Just remember the love we share then imagine each other and we will feel one another’s presence.”
In awe, he reaches a tentative hand to touch the hayye between us. Palm to palm, I can feel his entire essence wash over me. Teoma is duly affected. I smile at him, “Try not to hold your breath when you interact with the energies.” He chuckles, then his eyes widen. Quickly he sits up.
Yeshua stands in the doorway.
Within the angel’s peaceful embrace, I am protected, but grief shadows Teoma. I touch his heart energy. Yeshua’s anger crashes against us like a wave. As if in a dream, I rise and embrace Teoma. This is farewell.
Passing by my husband, I am moved to say one thing, “I am sorry, Yeshua, but this will be a dark journey.” The morning star shines brightly above the tent, but at my core the elestial quartz is as cold as death. Shivering, I wonder where the Divine is taking us.
Cheshvan, 3773
The fear in my heart has been made manifest—my wife is not my own. My adolescent lamentations that she would favor him over me seem ironic, our arranged marriage forced her decision—he has her heart. We do not speak, our only communication is the silence of our darkened bedchambers. What was once divine has become base, a physical release, water quenching thirst, not the sweet wine that satisfies my soul. Before we married, I dreamed of celebrating the harvest with her, making love among the golden sheaves, but my anger drove her from my arms with the excuse that the baby needed her. But I too need her.
Jealousy colors my vision, I cannot perceive her thoughts. She has shared nothing with me of what happened that night, but I sense his energy about her. In rare instances of peace, I can penetrate her mind to find her braving the ethers in search of the cords that bind their hearts.
My rage poisons our relationship, her wall of fear grows higher as she escapes under kasa. Knowing she journeys past the protective mists, I try to view her through the ethers, but all I can perceive is a black crow. As I struggle through this dark time, my wife withers away, refusing to take her meals with the family. Still the baby grows plump, but I fear we might need to bring in a wet nurse. Once I attempted to make her eat but she stubbornly refused the meal, saying food is not what she hungers for. I insisted, she gave in, her tears waking our inconsolable daughter. Frustrated, I told her that if she did not take care of herself, the baby would suffer as well. My words must have sickened her, for she purged her pain into the betshimush.
Never before have I felt so lost in the mire of fear. Perhaps I should have never married, leading our people without the burden of a wife and family. But I believed we were destined for one another. I created this painful reality to fulfill some divine purpose, but what?
Since the full moon of Tevet, the weather has become bitterly cold, and trapped inside with my sick baby, I am ever drearier. Unable to breathe through her nose, Sarah struggles to nurse, her infirmity a reflection of my own sick heart. Last Shabbat, I allowed Miriam to take her for the day, to give me time to spend with Yeshua, but he no longer seeks my company. At dusk I went to the nursery to retrieve my baby and Miriam begged me to let her stay, but Sarah is all I have now.
Tonight the pain in my heart has spread to my body. Wearily I lie beside my baby, praying she will stay asleep as Yeshua blows out the oil lamp, not even bidding me goodnight. Just as I begin to doze off, he reaches for me, his hand on my hip like ice.
“Please, Yeshua, not tonight.” Never before have I refused him.
He pulls me close. “This is all we have left…” I want to be held, perhaps we can talk, but the wall of anger and fear around him seems impenetrable. “Would you refuse him?”
Teoma would never treat me like this! Unwilling to argue, I start to rise.
“Where are you going? Your lover’s tent is gone.”
He is right, I have nowhere to go, no one to confide in; he sent away my only friend. I am very much alone, even face to face with my husband. How must other wives feel when the passion smolders, placating their spouses and dreaming of happier times?
When I relent, his only comment is how hot my skin feels, but it is not passion. Heeding my silent tears, Sarah wails piteously.
“Go….her needs are more pressing, it seems.”
Exasperated, I nurse Sarah and soon they are both fast asleep. Rising to go to the betshimush, my head spins but I never make it back to bed. Somewhere between the baths and our chambers, the sheer weight of the burden of a broken heart and a rising fever overwhelms me.
New moon of Shevat, 3773
I am losing her, not to him, but to despair. Fear and death surround me. My precious wife lies gravely ill, but I cannot find that still place from which to minister to her. When I place my hands upon her fevered brow, she becomes even weaker, her fever rising, her breathing labored. Rucha no longer resides within my being, sacred breath evaporating through my lips before I can place my mouth to hers.
Since she has been sick, the dark sky is swollen with clouds, the air bitterly cold. The birds no longer sing in her garden haven, even the trees weep in the barren groves. I am lost in my despair. If I must give her up to save her life, I will. I do! I surrender my beloved wife to the Divine. My life for hers. I leave her in Teoma’s faithful hands to live happily upon this earth. May they remember me in their joy, not in their sorrow.
In a feverish delirium, I am tended by Miriam but Sarah is gone. A soft shadow hovers over my left side, never changing in spite of the rising sun. Vaguely, I am aware of snippets of conversation between Yeshua and his parents.
Joseph’s voice is strained, “How can you have allowed this to happen? Look how she has wasted away. Why did you not allow me to bring in a wet nurse? Why have you not discussed this with your Ima and me?”
Yeshua says nothing, but I can feel his pain, anger muted by guilt, fear darkening his hayye. Joseph’s voice rises, “Poorly prepared to take care of a wife. Keeping Teoma with you knowing how they felt about each other only aggravated the situation. But at least while he was here, she ate!” He storms out and I am awash with waves of sorrow for Yeshua. I wish I could comfort him,
