Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a Son, and shall call His name Immanuel.
It’s been awhile since she played amongst the other children.
She hears them playing in the dirt outside the gate, squealing and singing. Mary has chores, has other children to care for–brothers and sisters. Sisters that will one day grow into their age and be betrothed themselves, brothers who will take wives, father children.
She’ll soon have children of her own, sons and daughters to call her own. She’ll soon have a home to make in these foothills.
She often finds her mind wandering, her gaze falling on the window, looking out over the land where she might one day watch her own young children playing.
“Yes, mother?” She turns to face the young woman framed in the doorway, rays of setting sun alighting the dark hair which mirrors Mary’s own.
Joseph. Such a good man–handsome, kind, a good father, a good Jew. She is blessed among the women in her village. Others look at him with eyes of desire. As she spies the narrow trail of dust rising from the road, a tightness curls in her chest.
Her mother gives her a warm smile and crosses the space between them to squeeze her hand.
“Go.” She says, and Mary runs out to greet him.