I slipped into the house for this little scroll, my reed pen , and a small clay lamp. I am now sitting on a large flat rock near the almond tree and trying to writing with the aid of the moon and the lamps flickering glow. “Holy, Holy, Holy,” I breathed, loath to leave this sacred place, yet knowing the hour was getting late.
I seemed to have been wrapped in an aura of other-worldliness for the rest of the evening. When I had wandered back into the house after meeting the angel, Imma was busy chopping up vegetables for a stew.
Soon the aroma of simmering onions permeated the air. My sister Hana, came in from milking the goats. She had handed me the milk, which I absently strained through cheese cloth into another container. The hum of voices ebbed and flowed around me but I had hardly noticed.
“You are quiet tonight,” Imma observed, her voice barely registering.
“Mary’am.” Abba’s hand was poised above the scroll his hand was reaching for. I looked up when he spoke my name. “Your mother spoke to you.”
“I’m sorry, Imma dear. Did you want something?”
“I just remarked about how quiet you have been since coming in.”
I felt like my cheeks were staining pink, so looked down and dipped a sop into the common bowl. “I am feeling…thoughtful, tonight.”
Abba and Imma exchanged a quizzical look, but I didn’t feel like I could explain; not yet.
It has been hard for me to grasp the magnitude of what actually happened such a few short hours ago, harder perhaps because everything else in my small world continues in just the same, down-to-earth way it always has. I hope people can comprehend that it is not that I am so special. It is what HaShem is going to do through me. I am just a poor, earthen vessel.
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