The Christmas Rose

by Mesu Andrews

Author’s Note

When undertaking a fictional story of ’s birth, I realize it’s not just a short story. It’s sacred Truth that I’ll mingle with historical research, and it must be done with reverence and caution. Because you, my readers, are a lovely kaleidoscope of ages, ethnicities, and denominations, I’ve tried to weave a story that honors a variety of traditions while maintaining the Truth of Jesus’s birth found in the of Matthew, Mark, and Luke.

Specifically, the names of Mary’s family members were chosen carefully and with prayer. Because many scholars believe :23 gives Mary’s lineage (and :1-16 gives ’s), I refer to Mary’s abba (father) as Heli rather than as he’s called in the apocrypha (http://bit.ly/MaryParents). However, I do give Mary’s mother the name Anna, which is consistent with tradition.

Regarding Elizabeth’s relationship to Mary . . . translators have used the Greek word syngenēs to describe Gabriel’s pronouncement of their relationship. Only KJV and the Message continue to use “cousin,” while other scholars believe the general term, “relative,” more accurately describes the uncertain connection between the women. One site suggested an explanation of Elizabeth and Mary’s relationship, including worthy historical documentation, which rang true in my spirit. It was this opinion I adopted for the story, but I don’t in any way suggest it is infallible Truth

(http://apologeticspress.org/APContent.aspx?category=11&article=2532).

I hope you’ll allow your heart and mind to ruminate on the people and events that surrounded the “main event” of our Baby King’s birth. What a tremendous joy and privilege it’s been to write this story, and I pray the Light of Christmas will follow us all into 2021.

Family Tree of Characters

Emorun

Zechariah Elizabeth

Anna Heli

Holy John Spirit Mary Joseph

Jesus Chapter One

“…And the father of Joseph, the husband of Mary, and Mary was the mother of Jesus who

is called the Messiah.”

Matthew 1:16

Emorun

My gnarled hands trembled on the leather knot, my fingers too stiff and pained to untie it.

I shoved the leather-wrapped scroll back at the messenger who stood waiting for a copper coin.

Couldn’t he tell by our cramped home he’d get nothing from me? “I can’t open it. Can’t read it either,” I said. “Are you sure the message was intended for me—Emorun bat Melki of

Nazareth?”

The boy’s youthful hands slipped the knotted strap free as he explained. “The woman who sent it from Ein Karem said she was your daughter, Elizabeth.” The leather casing unfurled with the parchment scroll, and I crossed my arms, dread seeping into my old bones.

“Read it.” I could barely croak the words. My daughter had never sent me a message.

The boy’s brow furrowed, and he let the missive fall to his side. “I can’t read either.” His bottom lip pooched out far enough for a bird to perch there.

“Well, aren’t we a pair.” I leaned forward, gripped his chin, and smiled. “At least you have your whole life to learn.”

We both chuckled softly, and I called for my grand-daughter. “Mary, we need your help, dear.” The girl rushed from the courtyard into my single-room dwelling, drying her hands on a rough spun towel. My new friend stood a little straighter, his cheeks blushing red as poppies.

“Shalom.” Mary inclined her head politely. “I see you found my savta.”

The boy, likely Mary’s age, could only nod. She’d evidently directed him to my chamber when he came calling at the courtyard gate. Girls were so much older at fourteen than boys. No wonder men waited to marry until they were well into their twenties.

“Mary,” I said, “could you read the message from your doda Elizabeth.”

The boy offered her the parchment, and concern shadowed my girl’s features. She, too, seemed to realize the potential impact, snatched it from his hand, and began reading aloud:

Elizabeth, wife of Zechariah ben Eleazar, priest in Ein Karem,

To my ima Emorun and sister Anna’s family in Nazareth:

Shalom and good tidings to you all.

I write to inform you of a strange happening.

Zechariah returned from his monthly service at the Temple unable to speak. However, he’s written (for my eyes only) about a most incredible encounter with an angel in the Most Holy

Place.

Mary looked up from the parchment, eyes wide, mouth agape. “What could have happened to Dohd Zechariah?”

My heart was beating like a drum. “Keep reading, Child.”

The girl continued:

We wait in expectation for the angel’s words to be fulfilled.

May Hashem keep watch between us until I write again with news of our miracle.

Mary looked up again, her gaze holding mine with wonder. “A miracle,” she breathed.

“Yes, a miracle.” The messenger’s reverent whisper reminded me he’d heard our family news.

“I have no coins to bribe you to silence,” I said. “But Hashem is watching over us now to hear your vow of silence.” The boy rolled his eyes to peruse my ceiling as if Hashem or his angel might drop from the sky any moment. When he returned his focus to me, he nodded adamantly. “I won’t even charge extra for the time I’ve lost waiting for the reading.”

I swatted him with my cane. “Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m senile. You were already paid in Ein Karem.” He ducked his head, ashamed—as he should have been—but I nudged him again with the cane, gently this time. “Mary will pack your shoulder bag with bread and cheese for your return journey. You need not leave Nazareth hungry.”

Mary placed the parchment in my lap and started toward the courtyard. “Come on,” she said. “You’ve got enough daylight to make it to the south side of the sea before dusk. Galilee isn’t friendly to outsiders, so be sure you sleep inside the city gates of Tiberias.”

“Send your ima in to see me,” I shouted as she led him toward the food baskets. My youngest, Anna, would want to know her sister’s news. Elizabeth was fifteen years older than her baby sister and had never borne a child, but my two girls were as close as grapes in a cluster.

I closed my eyes to wait, and before I realized it, Anna shook my shoulder, and the dusk had muted the sun’s harsh heat. “What’s this about Elizabeth sending you a message?” Concern pressed down her brow, but I offered her the parchment in my lap.

“Here, you can—” I stopped myself. My Anna couldn’t read either. I ducked my head, feeling silly. “Sleep has addled my brain. Remind me to tell Heli how much I appreciate him teaching his sons and his daughter Mary to read.”

“You and abba made a good match for me in Heli, Ima.” Anna squeezed my hand. “I pray the match Heli has made for our Mary will make her as happy.”