The Guest
Stories
The old man closed the door, hoping to cut out — or at least cut down — the noise coming from the central room of the house, a near-constant sound somewhere between the bleating of sheep and the chirping of birds that plucked at his nerves with the slow, relentless persistence of a vulture feasting on a still-living carcass.
It didn’t help.
Control yourself, Zechariah, he thought, focus on the task at hand.
With an inaudible grunt he sat down at a small table, unrolled a strip of tanned hide, and used bits of this and that to hold down the corners. Automatically, hands almost moving of their own accord, he reached into a small cabinet and took out a bottle of ink and a stylus. For a moment or two, by sheer force of will, he shut out the drone of noise from the central room and stared at the blank hide. Then, having focused his thoughts, he dipped the stylus in ink and began to write in neat, graceful letters that marched across the pad from right to left, forming a column that might have been plotted out ahead of time — but was not.
He just had a knack for this writing thing.
My Dear Colleague, he wrote, I must write you once again to tell you that I shall not be able to perform my priestly duties when the Order of Abijah is called to service once more, in the rotation. I am, as I have been for the better part of a year, still mute.
If you have ever been afflicted with this torture, you know what it is like to stand silent among your peers, your neighbors, and your wife, unable to express anything but the simplest of ideas or desires, and then only by acting them out.
The ability to write is of nearly no value, as my wife Elizabeth, of course, has never learned the art of it, and most of those men around me are not literate enough to understand anything but a simple list, or perhaps bits of familiar scripture. The prophets of old were Godly men of great knowledge, filled with the Spirit of the Lord, but their words are insufficient for me to communicate my own wishes or anxieties, so I must swallow them up and suffer in silence.
And suffer I do. We have had a house guest for nearly three years months, a young girl whose mother is related to Elizabeth, and who came to us some months after she found out she was with child. Elizabeth, that is. Although the girl appears to be in the same condition, without the benefit of honorable marriage. She appears not to be discomfited by her condition, but rather broke out in song when Elizabeth greeted her warmly in a most odd conversation. While I have written little of it, my friend, you know of the miraculous aspects of the child she bears, a true gift from the Most High, and yet she marveled at the child who rested within the girl’s womb, even saying that our son had begun to move as she approached. They fell upon one another like long-lost sisters.
And in nearly three months, I swear, they have hardly ceased to talk. Whatever they are doing, whether it is cooking or cleaning or washing our clothes, they chatter incessantly. Sometimes they will lower their voices when they don’t want me to overhear them, but I do believe they have somehow equated my lack of speech to imply a lack of adequate hearing, as well. But God help me, I hear though they scarcely knew one another, Elizabeth has become her confidante, and the girl has been frank about her condition. She discovered that she was with child several months ago, and I have come to believe that is what compelled her to come all this way. Yes, yes, she says an angel told her that she should visit Elizabeth and in some arcane manner allow our children to meet — remember, I told you about the unusual things that happened at their meeting. But I think the bigger reason lies with her condition. She is embarrassed, as she has not yet married, though she has been betrothed. Even so, I have heard her say that the man she was going to marry did not know about her condition, which makes me wonder who, exactly, the father is.
She has told a fabulous tale about an angel imparting a vision upon her, and telling her that she bears the Messiah, without benefit of knowing a man, but that hardly seems reasonable. My own Elizabeth being with child is a miracle, without doubt, but at least we had known one another. The child she bears is not the result of some magical intervention by God, himself, to make a virgin girl bear a child. There are some things that are just beyond all reason.
I can see you smiling now, old friend, suggesting with your expression alone that of all people, I should be willing to believe any sort of miracle that results in the coming of a child into this world. But reason must stand alongside faith, must it not? The stars follow their courses, they do not run willy-nilly across the sky to do the bidding of our Lord.
But truth be told, I would gladly accept her story if it meant she would leave. Every morning when I rise, I pray that today will be the day she tells me she is returning to her parents, to face whatever may come. I pray for patience, to put up with the senseless prattle and the hushed conversations. I even pray that her betrothed might arrive and remove her to her home, to see justice carried out.
It is a bitter pill to swallow, that a God who was generous enough to grant Elizabeth and I a child despite her barrenness, seems to turn a deaf ear to my prayers to restore my own peace of mind. The women of the village tell Elizabeth that her time is near, and I cannot endure putting up with the birth of a child — my child — and still having this girl of questionable virtue here. She is a bad example.
I do not know how much more of this I can take. Please pray that I may have strength, old friend. And wisdom to know what to do.
He paused, then, stylus in hand, looking down at what he had written, trying to discern his own final thoughts, so he could put them on paper and give voice to them somehow even though he could not speak of them to anyone.
His concentration was shattered by a knock at the door. The door opened slowly and Elizabeth stepped inside. His eyes took in the fullness of her pregnant form, beautiful by lamplight, and for a moment he ached to be with her…alone. He tried to speak, to share those words at least, but still nothing would issue from his mouth but exhaled breath.
They looked at each other in silence, as though she were hoping he might suddenly speak, then she sighed and smiled, and said softly, “Zechariah — Mary and I have been talking, and I wanted to let you know that she is planning on leaving tomorrow. There is a family going to Nazareth, and she is going to travel with them.” She paused, shrugged slightly. “She said it was time that she face the man she’s going to marry.”
As if he will still marry her, Zechariah thought, but did not let that thought temper the joy in his heart. Unable to speak he nodded enthusiastically, smiled, and then motioned for her to leave, turned back to his table.
He sat still for several beats, then resumed writing with the ghost of a smile remaining on his lips.
Dear friend, he wrote, it appears that God does answer all prayers. We just never know how he’s going to do it. Or when. In any case, the girl is leaving and I will be getting some sense of order and sanity in my life again. And who knows — maybe this child Mary is carrying is something special after all? I am almost willing to believe it…
*****************************************
StoryShare, December 19, 2021 issue.
Copyright 2021 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
It didn’t help.
Control yourself, Zechariah, he thought, focus on the task at hand.
With an inaudible grunt he sat down at a small table, unrolled a strip of tanned hide, and used bits of this and that to hold down the corners. Automatically, hands almost moving of their own accord, he reached into a small cabinet and took out a bottle of ink and a stylus. For a moment or two, by sheer force of will, he shut out the drone of noise from the central room and stared at the blank hide. Then, having focused his thoughts, he dipped the stylus in ink and began to write in neat, graceful letters that marched across the pad from right to left, forming a column that might have been plotted out ahead of time — but was not.
He just had a knack for this writing thing.
My Dear Colleague, he wrote, I must write you once again to tell you that I shall not be able to perform my priestly duties when the Order of Abijah is called to service once more, in the rotation. I am, as I have been for the better part of a year, still mute.
If you have ever been afflicted with this torture, you know what it is like to stand silent among your peers, your neighbors, and your wife, unable to express anything but the simplest of ideas or desires, and then only by acting them out.
The ability to write is of nearly no value, as my wife Elizabeth, of course, has never learned the art of it, and most of those men around me are not literate enough to understand anything but a simple list, or perhaps bits of familiar scripture. The prophets of old were Godly men of great knowledge, filled with the Spirit of the Lord, but their words are insufficient for me to communicate my own wishes or anxieties, so I must swallow them up and suffer in silence.
And suffer I do. We have had a house guest for nearly three years months, a young girl whose mother is related to Elizabeth, and who came to us some months after she found out she was with child. Elizabeth, that is. Although the girl appears to be in the same condition, without the benefit of honorable marriage. She appears not to be discomfited by her condition, but rather broke out in song when Elizabeth greeted her warmly in a most odd conversation. While I have written little of it, my friend, you know of the miraculous aspects of the child she bears, a true gift from the Most High, and yet she marveled at the child who rested within the girl’s womb, even saying that our son had begun to move as she approached. They fell upon one another like long-lost sisters.
And in nearly three months, I swear, they have hardly ceased to talk. Whatever they are doing, whether it is cooking or cleaning or washing our clothes, they chatter incessantly. Sometimes they will lower their voices when they don’t want me to overhear them, but I do believe they have somehow equated my lack of speech to imply a lack of adequate hearing, as well. But God help me, I hear though they scarcely knew one another, Elizabeth has become her confidante, and the girl has been frank about her condition. She discovered that she was with child several months ago, and I have come to believe that is what compelled her to come all this way. Yes, yes, she says an angel told her that she should visit Elizabeth and in some arcane manner allow our children to meet — remember, I told you about the unusual things that happened at their meeting. But I think the bigger reason lies with her condition. She is embarrassed, as she has not yet married, though she has been betrothed. Even so, I have heard her say that the man she was going to marry did not know about her condition, which makes me wonder who, exactly, the father is.
She has told a fabulous tale about an angel imparting a vision upon her, and telling her that she bears the Messiah, without benefit of knowing a man, but that hardly seems reasonable. My own Elizabeth being with child is a miracle, without doubt, but at least we had known one another. The child she bears is not the result of some magical intervention by God, himself, to make a virgin girl bear a child. There are some things that are just beyond all reason.
I can see you smiling now, old friend, suggesting with your expression alone that of all people, I should be willing to believe any sort of miracle that results in the coming of a child into this world. But reason must stand alongside faith, must it not? The stars follow their courses, they do not run willy-nilly across the sky to do the bidding of our Lord.
But truth be told, I would gladly accept her story if it meant she would leave. Every morning when I rise, I pray that today will be the day she tells me she is returning to her parents, to face whatever may come. I pray for patience, to put up with the senseless prattle and the hushed conversations. I even pray that her betrothed might arrive and remove her to her home, to see justice carried out.
It is a bitter pill to swallow, that a God who was generous enough to grant Elizabeth and I a child despite her barrenness, seems to turn a deaf ear to my prayers to restore my own peace of mind. The women of the village tell Elizabeth that her time is near, and I cannot endure putting up with the birth of a child — my child — and still having this girl of questionable virtue here. She is a bad example.
I do not know how much more of this I can take. Please pray that I may have strength, old friend. And wisdom to know what to do.
He paused, then, stylus in hand, looking down at what he had written, trying to discern his own final thoughts, so he could put them on paper and give voice to them somehow even though he could not speak of them to anyone.
His concentration was shattered by a knock at the door. The door opened slowly and Elizabeth stepped inside. His eyes took in the fullness of her pregnant form, beautiful by lamplight, and for a moment he ached to be with her…alone. He tried to speak, to share those words at least, but still nothing would issue from his mouth but exhaled breath.
They looked at each other in silence, as though she were hoping he might suddenly speak, then she sighed and smiled, and said softly, “Zechariah — Mary and I have been talking, and I wanted to let you know that she is planning on leaving tomorrow. There is a family going to Nazareth, and she is going to travel with them.” She paused, shrugged slightly. “She said it was time that she face the man she’s going to marry.”
As if he will still marry her, Zechariah thought, but did not let that thought temper the joy in his heart. Unable to speak he nodded enthusiastically, smiled, and then motioned for her to leave, turned back to his table.
He sat still for several beats, then resumed writing with the ghost of a smile remaining on his lips.
Dear friend, he wrote, it appears that God does answer all prayers. We just never know how he’s going to do it. Or when. In any case, the girl is leaving and I will be getting some sense of order and sanity in my life again. And who knows — maybe this child Mary is carrying is something special after all? I am almost willing to believe it…
*****************************************
StoryShare, December 19, 2021 issue.
Copyright 2021 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
