She travels alone.
Southward bound.
Across the river, bypassing the forbidden country, then across the river again.
Through the cursed city and up the mountain — to the capital — the cherished, holy city.
Not long here though — further south and further into the mountains.
Met by her older cousin. Welcomed after her 100 mile journey. 5 days. Embraced.
The older woman gasps with delight in their embrace. The baby within her abruptly makes his presence known — as if the unborn child is welcoming the teenage mother-to-be.
Somehow, advocating for the newly conceived.
"Elizabeth (shouting): You are blessed, Mary, blessed among all women, and the child you bear is blessed! And blessed I am as well, that the mother of my Lord has come to me! As soon as I heard your voice greet me, my baby leaped for joy within me. How fortunate you are, Mary, for you believed that what the Lord told you would be fulfilled. (Luke 1:42-45 - The Voice)
Mary sings: "God has noticed me. God remains true to the humble — to God’s self. God is unravelling the hold of the mighty."
Three months pass.
I wonder how often she sings as she cares for her cousin to her point of delivery. All who are near her become familiar with the tune.
They wince and they wonder at the message of her song. A message of hope. A notice of divine subversion for the brokers of fear and oppression.
The Romans. The Scholars. The Rulers.
"God has noticed me. God is true to God’s self. God is unravelling the hold of the mighty.”
I wonder if she mouths the words on her journey home — a journey down the mountain, yet a little more exhausting this time around — now 12 weeks pregnant — now showing.
Nazareth.
I wonder if she is overheard singing in the quiet corners of her small home family home.
I wonder if she is ever shushed.
I suspect she is determined not to let her voice be silenced: “God has noticed me. God is true to God’s self. God is unravelling the hold of the mighty.”
This blessing. This fulfilment. This hope — is to be heard, and seen, and felt — experienced.
This hope.
This tiny hope she carries.
What might it take for us to hear this song? To catch this murmured melody?
What might it take for us to see this story? To notice this minuscule appearance?
What might it take for us to feel — to experience — the immeasurable value of this tiny hope?