wedding.
Actually she felt she had been generous in not making them wait the entire year. Now Mary's impatience, and the fact that Joachim was obviously suffering at the thought of losing her—so much that he was even anxious to have it over with—such only enhanced Hannah's obstinance.
"Come now, surely it was not so bad living in the house of my mother," Joachim said.
"You know yourself we had no moment's peace or privacy. Not until you took me to a house of our own did we truly know happiness."
To avoid the taunt in her eyes he betook himself to the yard, where he paced in his misery. Truly his wife's love had been a long time coming; but it was not so in the case of Joseph and Mary. They would need neither peace nor privacy for what they felt for each other. A blur of pain enveloped him. He was jealous of Joseph—his youth and his love that was so richly returned. Yet if she must be given to someone, let it be a good gentle man like Joseph, and let it be soon.
Hannah had no idea what it was like to be a man—this waiting. No woman could comprehend physical passion. Even Mary, with her great eyes starry with longing, her lips drooping before Hannah's decision. She was but a child; she did not have the faintest concept of the demon-god that entered a youth's loins at puberty and gave him no peace thereafter. That drove him, a whip goading, lashing him sometimes beyond all reason and honor. Six months, Hannah had compromised. He snorted. Six months could be an eternity when you were enflamed by a woman and already bound to her.
He felt deeply for Joseph. He was rankled and saddened before the fact of it, but he was also sympathetic. And concerned. He was very much concerned. . . .
Hannah sewed on, taking satisfaction in the soft fall of cloth across her knees, the thread so neatly binding the seams. And in Mary, dreamily embroidering, and Salome, a slow careful round-eyed child, working earnestly away at the loom. These were women's tasks, to spin and weave and bind and impose order upon the importunate men. When Mary went into the house of Joseph she would not be found wanting by her mother-in-law, she would take a full chest. Six months were scarcely enough-she thought of the bedding, the tablecloths, the towels, the draperies for the doorways. Hannah yanked the cloth impatiently, her fingers dipped even swifter. Yet she felt a keen thrill of sheer organization. She felt her own brisk control. And this mounting stock of linens—weren't they proof of her devotion for Mary? And underneath this surface of vigorous, practical activity ran a river of rebellion that surpassed Joachim's. And an incessant secret wailing: Mary. Mary! My blessed, first fruit of my fallow womb—how can I bear your going?
Already the house seemed stripped, emptied of the precious presence now committed and focused upon a new house and life of its own. You could not reach Mary, however you shouted at her and bade her be still for the fitting of garments. You could not shake her into an acknowledgment of you who had borne her, slaved for her, well-nigh worshiped her. She thought only of Joseph, the hour when he would come to work in the garden beside her, or sit with the family making polite conversation, while the thing that was between them chimed and quivered and lent discomfort to all.
No, no ... it would be a good thing when they were safely married. Joachim was right, it would be a relief. Yet she clung to her decision. And it was only sensible with all the preparations, Joseph's as well as theirs. She could not have her daughter going to live in that hovel with his parents, not after all her fine talk.
Hannah cringed sometimes to remember. Well, the Lord had seen fit to chasten her. Perhaps because she had loved Mary too well. For the Lord their God was a jealous God, and there was no denying it, she had loved Mary next to God and perhaps more. More even than Joachim, more than the other children that had come to bless their home.
Actually she felt she had been generous in not making them wait the entire year. Now Mary's impatience, and the fact that Joachim was obviously suffering at the thought of losing her—so much that he was even anxious to have it over with—such only enhanced Hannah's obstinance.
"Come now, surely it was not so bad living in the house of my mother," Joachim said.
"You know yourself we had no moment's peace or privacy. Not until you took me to a house of our own did we truly know happiness."
To avoid the taunt in her eyes he betook himself to the yard, where he paced in his misery. Truly his wife's love had been a long time coming; but it was not so in the case of Joseph and Mary. They would need neither peace nor privacy for what they felt for each other. A blur of pain enveloped him. He was jealous of Joseph—his youth and his love that was so richly returned. Yet if she must be given to someone, let it be a good gentle man like Joseph, and let it be soon.
Hannah had no idea what it was like to be a man—this waiting. No woman could comprehend physical passion. Even Mary, with her great eyes starry with longing, her lips drooping before Hannah's decision. She was but a child; she did not have the faintest concept of the demon-god that entered a youth's loins at puberty and gave him no peace thereafter. That drove him, a whip goading, lashing him sometimes beyond all reason and honor. Six months, Hannah had compromised. He snorted. Six months could be an eternity when you were enflamed by a woman and already bound to her.
He felt deeply for Joseph. He was rankled and saddened before the fact of it, but he was also sympathetic. And concerned. He was very much concerned. . . .
Hannah sewed on, taking satisfaction in the soft fall of cloth across her knees, the thread so neatly binding the seams. And in Mary, dreamily embroidering, and Salome, a slow careful round-eyed child, working earnestly away at the loom. These were women's tasks, to spin and weave and bind and impose order upon the importunate men. When Mary went into the house of Joseph she would not be found wanting by her mother-in-law, she would take a full chest. Six months were scarcely enough-she thought of the bedding, the tablecloths, the towels, the draperies for the doorways. Hannah yanked the cloth impatiently, her fingers dipped even swifter. Yet she felt a keen thrill of sheer organization. She felt her own brisk control. And this mounting stock of linens—weren't they proof of her devotion for Mary? And underneath this surface of vigorous, practical activity ran a river of rebellion that surpassed Joachim's. And an incessant secret wailing: Mary. Mary! My blessed, first fruit of my fallow womb—how can I bear your going?
Already the house seemed stripped, emptied of the precious presence now committed and focused upon a new house and life of its own. You could not reach Mary, however you shouted at her and bade her be still for the fitting of garments. You could not shake her into an acknowledgment of you who had borne her, slaved for her, well-nigh worshiped her. She thought only of Joseph, the hour when he would come to work in the garden beside her, or sit with the family making polite conversation, while the thing that was between them chimed and quivered and lent discomfort to all.
No, no ... it would be a good thing when they were safely married. Joachim was right, it would be a relief. Yet she clung to her decision. And it was only sensible with all the preparations, Joseph's as well as theirs. She could not have her daughter going to live in that hovel with his parents, not after all her fine talk.
Hannah cringed sometimes to remember. Well, the Lord had seen fit to chasten her. Perhaps because she had loved Mary too well. For the Lord their God was a jealous God, and there was no denying it, she had loved Mary next to God and perhaps more. More even than Joachim, more than the other children that had come to bless their home.
Similar Books
